


This Is Why We Fight

by rhia474



Category: Neverwinter Nights
Genre: Adventure, Developing Relationship, F/M, Humor, Philosophy, Realmslore, Religion, relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-19 18:55:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 52,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhia474/pseuds/rhia474
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of snippets in-and-between game scenes. Hordes of the Underdark version of  whether a four-star veteran army general can work with a hotshot MI-6 agent.  Features Valen Shadowbreath, General of Lith My'athar's armies, and Special Errant Envoy Plenipotentiary of His Exalted Highness the Primarch of Torm Adele Welters in the main roles. Work in progress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1. Arrival

 

**Author’s note** : **This somewhat disjointed collection of snippets came from a couple of inspirations:**

  1. **My ponderings regarding Valen’s title as ‘general of Lith My’athar’s armies’, his supposed age, and his training as a weaponmaster and a soldier in the Blood Wars. In other words: much older and vastly more experienced in the ways of bloodshed than any youngish human player character (probably even considering playing with the same PC through NWN, SotU and HotU like me).**
  2. **The hilarity when I realized that said PC of mine, Special Errant Envoy Plenipotentiary of His Exalted Highness the Primarch of Torm Adele Welters, would now be forced to work with a tiefling. Giggity-giggle.**
  3. **The difference between a set military structure (I assumed that was what Valen was familiar with and what Lith My’athar’s armies were organized on), and an independent paladin errant, specializing in going to places and solving problems for the good of it all. In modern terms, can a four-star veteran army general work with a hotshot MI-6 agent?**



**For all the reasons stemming from the above, conversations from the game are heavily paraphrased: I intended to remain close to their nature instead of being slave to their words.**

**This was fun, especially after those two met and started talking in my head. Hope someone else enjoys it too!**

 

1.

 

“Boss?”

“Yes, Master Scalesinger?”

“Deekin’s head hurt.”

“Feeling’s mutual,” Adele Welters mutters; her head is still spinning, and the conviction that wizards absolutely, under no circumstances whatsoever should be trusted rapidly becomes the second most important thing she learned in the past few weeks.

_Especially mad wizards with a penchant of high-pitched giggles, talking in rhymes and creating their own clones_.

_And teleporting people who just freed them from kidnapping drow_ _after placing enchantments of said rescuers…_

She lets her instincts take over, honed into precision by years of rigorous training and adherence to The Code.  Coiling up from the ground and feeling the reassuring weight of her armor around her, she backs up so she feels the solid pressure of a wall behind her, sword drawn and held in front of her, tip towards the ground: the Door of Duty. The first words of invocation in her lips for strength, Adele is ready to spring at anything that comes at her…

_Where in the Nine Hells did that mad wizard teleport us?_

_And where’s that drow?_

“Deekin, light!” she hisses towards the kobold, hoping that he actually listens this time: she doesn’t use his first name very often. “A _small_ one, please,” she adds after brief consideration, and is relieved to see the tiny and controlled warm flame floating up from the little bard’s upstretched palm.

And in its wake…she _sees_.

Adele never swears, despite the long years spent with soldiers, even including that brief stint on behalf of the Primarch of Torm smuggling slaves out of Luskan, but she can now barely contain something decidedly unpleasant slipping out between her clenched teeth as she looks around her.

“Master Scalesinger?” She settles on that, gesturing to her companion sharply. “To me. Now.”

“What it is, Boss?” Deekin scuttles over, head tilted questioningly to a side. Adele winces: sometimes the kobold’s blessed ignorance towards most of his surroundings is rather a curse. “Can’t be baddies: they would have jumped on us by now, and Boss would have gotten them all smited to death…Smoted? Smitten?” His sentence trails off as the kobold considers the possibilities.

Adele concentrates on slowing her breathing as she studies the intricate carvings of the walls stretching up around them.

_This does not look good._

_And I can’t see Nathyrra at all._ Adele wonders, briefly, if this is another of Halaster’s tricks: leaving the drow woman, the third member of their little party behind while sending her  and Deekin to… well, wherever they are now, or whether there is something much more sinister behind her sudden absence.

And given what she sees on those walls, she is inclined to believe the second possibility more and more.  She shakes her head, swiping a few pale strands of hair out of her eyes; she is glad to feel that her helmet’s guard-chains held and it is reassuringly pressed into her back.

“If I remember my third-year novice course ‘Religions of Darkness’ correctly…” she starts, tapping her chin in thought.

“And you always do, Boss,” Deekin inserts smoothly. Adele shakes her head.

“Not now, Master Scalesinger, if you please. You can sing about my infallible memory, peerless judgment and flawless execution of duty later. Now we must dedicate ourselves to solving the pressing problem of seemingly being dropped in the middle of a Lolth-temple’s side room.”

Deekin makes a sound that is halfway between a squeak and a hiss.

“Yes, I know.” Adele sighs. “But those carvings are unmistakable, I’m afraid, even though judging by the crates here; this place is merely used for storage right now. And, given who our adversary is according to Master Halaster, this does _not_ bode well.”

“But…” Deekin slowly slides down along the wall until he is sitting on the floor, slightly trembling scaly hands in his lap. “That means a lot of angry drow, right?”

Adele nods.

“Any chance we can run?” Deekin asks hopefully.

“Doubtful.” Adele shakes her head. “I certainly can’t…I wouldn’t see further than my nose without your light, even if it wasn’t against my oath.” She taps her chin, considers Deekin carefully. “You might be able to hide somewhere and then…”

“Deekin would never leave Boss.” The little kobold squeaks out quickly. “Otherwise how would everyone in Waterdeep know about Boss’ heroic deeds in Undermountain and beyond, even…”

“Of course, Master Scalesinger.”  Adele interrupts her companion again: even though she grew immensely fond of him during their previous adventures, spending some time away from him and back between her brothers and sisters means that she has to get used to the kobold all over again, and it is…difficult. “Now, if you please, let us devote ourselves to discovering what lies below that door there. Most importantly, I would really like to find out where Nathyrra disappeared to.” She rotates her shoulder, still holding her blade slightly out to the side: it is strangely silent so far, but Adele certainly doesn’t mind a little bit of…

“Well, that was…unpleasant.” Enserric declares exactly at that point: the sentient sword has a penchant of spouting declarations exactly at the wrong time; very much like Deekin, in fact. Adele, like before, considers the possibility that she is burdened by both as a special test of faith from Torm…but surely, the Lord of Duty does not have _such_ warped sense of humor.

_And I’m still thinking that after five years of serving as the Special Errant Envoy of the Order of the Golden Lion the Lord of Duty doesn’t think of me as a very, very useful errand girl-combined-with-entertainer…_

 “Lovely of you to notice,” she answers Enserric, noting that the blade’s normal strong blue light seems to be paler. “Are you all right?”

“You mean, after that particularly violent teleporting spell, during which, as any competent magical theory book would tell you, you are sucked into a negative dimension, disassembled into your tiniest components until you’re nothing but pure energy, then reassembled at your entry point and violently ejected, the excess force needed clearly taken from your own stores so you are…” The sword flickers again. “Ugh, I’d so throw up now, if I were still corporeal.”

“Deekin thinks…”

“Yes, no doubt.” Adele says curtly, cutting Deekin off before he can even attempt an answer. She decides to simply do what usually works: stick to the curt necessities as she was taught by her first teachers in the sprawling citadel of Torm in Tantras. _Spend your efforts on your deeds, not your words: thus the Duty will be fulfilled._ “Two priorities: find Nathyrra and establish location, if you don’t mind. Now, the best way …”

She gets that far when the door of the room opens. The hallway beyond is barely lit with an odd orange glow, and bathes the silhouette of a man standing in the doorway in a sinister light.

Adele’s eyes narrow. There is _something_ … but just as her eyes adjust and she realizes _what_ it is she faces, she already feels the pinpricks of her divine magic awakening.  If the horns and the swishing tail wouldn’t be a giveaway, the taint of the Lower Planes surrounds the man like an infernal or abyssal aura unseen to the mortal eye, but clear as day to her trained senses.

_A half-breed. In a drow temple. Splendid._

Almost at the same time, the figure at the door lifts his right hand, and Adele realizes that the taint is the least thing she has to worry about.

That is the largest one-handed warflail she’d ever seen.

“You shall not have the Seer, intruders!” he growls, stepping forward with liquid grace. Adele’s reflexes take over again, successfully circumventing her brain that even now is trying to analyze the situation. Her body moves, shifting her balance to sidestep the expected blow of the warflail, accounting for the curve of the backswing. She sends Enserric on a curt, violent thrust towards the outsider’s ribs at the same time, hoping to find the opening amongst the interlocking plates of his armor there without overextending…

_It’s that or a direct Smite, and I am still too groggy for that_. _Not to mention I can’t get too close because dear Torm, he is tall!_

She misses; he is fast as well, apparently. He twists almost in time with Enserric’s inward move; the longsword makes a surprised ‘oomph’ sound as it glances off the man’s backplate. Adele avoids the flail, true, but it catches the edge of her cloak as the outsider sweeps it back in a backhanded, odd arc. She ducks, knees almost on the floor, yanks on the fabric, hoping the magic in it was strong enough to hold the weave together, then whirls around and comes up with Enserric in a high guard, ready to sweep down…

“Valen, stop!!” That is Nathyrra’s voice, clear and high; she appears from behind the outsider, arms raised, white hair in disarray. “She’s no danger…”

“She’s an intruder!” The man turns, weapon still at the ready, still fully intent of springing on Adele at any moment, it is clear.

She also waits: the reappearance of her guide is at least partially a positive development on this mad day.

_And with every breath I can gather more of my powers back for that smite should I need it_ , she thinks as she allows her breathing to slow back to the prescribed pattern necessary to summon the god’s energies to be unleashed on Evil.

“She is our Savior!” Nathyrra dances around the man’s large form: a lithe and lethal shadow, almost vibrating from tension. “She is the one the Seer saw… she is the one I was sent to find. We were separated by the mad mage’s magics…” She tilts her head to one side. “ _Usstan joros,  Malla Qu'el'saruk.”_

Adele has no idea what that means, but it certainly has its effect. She decides there and then that Nathyrra is, after all, all right. That flail is _huge_ , and the man wielding it possesses agility and grace besides being strong: their brief exchange already told her it would have been a brutal fight with her powers all exhausted and spent.

_“Ol’zhah dubo, abbil,”_ the outsider growls, letting his arm finally relax so that the warflail falls to his side.” _Jhal ji tlu ol._ ” He inclines his head towards Nathyrra: the orange glow of the corridor glints at two sharply curved horns.  “You will forgive me, then, if I don’t tarry any longer. Take her to the Seer: I have other business to attend to now that I know that _our Savior_ is here.”

Those last words drip venom as he throws a side glance towards Adele. He looks utterly lethal, angry… and _tired,_ Adele realizes looking into those unusually clear blue eyes; almost, if not _more_ exhausted than she herself. All angular features, tightly pressed lips, long locks the color of fire... She blinks as one of her powers suddenly wakes, curling a tendril of energy almost unselfconsciously out towards the outsider, like every holy warrior worth his or her salt would when facing one of _those_ …

“Damnation and hellfire, Nathyrra!” The outsider almost explodes as he whirls around again, one gloved hand, blissfully empty of weapon, pointing accusingly at Adele. “Is she really a _paladin_? _Has the Seer lost her mind at last?”_

“I would like to think I’ve retained my faculties even though many in this city might think otherwise.” A woman’s voice, deep, resonant and full of amusement: it stops the outsider right on his tracks. Adele just stares, as both the outsider and Nathyrra bows deeply, giving way to a tall female drow in resplendent white-and-silver silks swirling around her like veils of moonlight. “Although if _you_ think me mad, dear Valen, we might as well invite the armies of the Valsharess in…” she continues, tilting her head as she looks up at the man who towers over even her.

“Forgive me, Seer.” There is no emotion on the outsider’s face but his pale cheeks definitely turn the color of embarrassment. Adele watches, hardly believing her eyes, as he goes on a knee in front of the frail woman. “I spoke out of desperation and…”

“There’s no need.”  The woman called The Seer touches a slender, elegant hand to the man’s cheek as gently as a beam of moonlight. “In fact, I would worry about you had you never expressed doubts about me: please rise.” Her deep violet eyes find Adele and a gentle smile opens on her face almost immediately. “But come now. Our guest must think we’re being discourteous…”

“ _Especially_ since someone just _couldn’t_ stop hitting first and asking questions later…” inserts Nathyrra with some acid in her voice, watching the outsider getting on his feet and wincing at the well-placed shot. “Mother Seer, this is Adele Welters, who amongst those dwelling aboveground holds the title Special Errant Envoy Plenipotentiary to the Primarch of the god Torm.”

“The Loyal Fury.” The other drow woman nods. “That is how her god is known to mine… Most fitting for our needs indeed.” She inclines her head towards Adele and beckons with one silk-gloved hand. “Come now, child; you probably are tired and in need of refreshments and some much-needed explanations.  I can provide both, and an apology about your reception in our abode here: rest assured had I known about your coming, I’d have prepared a more fitting welcome. Let me, however, greet you now in the city of Lith My’athar. I am known as The Seer to my people, as the Lady of the Dance sees fit to gift me with dreams that come true and light dreams in people’s hearts.” She indicates the two standing by her: Adele is struck by her manners and mode of speech, calling into memory short days spent in some of the most sophisticated courts of Faerun. “Nathyrra you already know: she serves as my eyes and ears in Lith My’athar and beyond. And, I believe, you, or at least your sword, are already acquainted with Valen Shadowbreath as well …” The Seer’s smile is decidedly mischievous there, Adele decides, and is grateful for the scarcity of light in her corner hiding her own blush.

_~ Yes indeed, with him, and his flail. ~_ Enserric’s voice is sour in her head _. ~ Curse it; even I’ve never seen someone being so fast with a weapon like that.~_

 The Seer’s next sentence, however, makes her gulp and feel as if she is on the edge of a gaping chasm. “He’s the general of Lith My’athar’s armies and my right arm between the darkness of the Valsharess and our people.”

_What_? Adele stares: the outsider does indeed, have some kind of wide sash across his shimmering green breastplate but she could hardly have…

She bites her lip and discreetly raps on Enserric’s sheath: the sentient sword snickers almost loud enough for everyone to hear. His thoughts echo clearly in her mind.

 ~ _Well there, Special Envoy Plenipotentiary… you really, really messed up this time. Congratulations. Committing diplomatic faux pas the first instant after arriving to what obviously is headquarters of allied forces against the very enemy you’re supposed to fight. Talk about embodying the stereotype of pigheaded paladins, judging everyone without thinking… ~_

Adele feels her body go rigid, unselfconsciously snapping into attention as if she is standing in front of the Grand Master himself. One hand still on Enserric’s hilt, she clicks her heels together and executes the best salute since her novitiate days.

“General, sir!” She enunciates clearly, sending a quiet prayer to Torm to either stop the nightmare or please forgive her whatever transgression she committed that caused him to drop her into this joke.  “My blade was out first: please do forgive me.  I had no idea…”

“At least you have manners,” the man growls. Adele shivers as he regards her with eyes cold as ice chips from one of the Northern glaciers. “ _That_ will, no doubt, come handy when the Valsharess’ armies descend upon us. You can have pretty speeches from the battlements.”  He nods curtly. “Seer: I am not a man of words—if you forgive me, instead of chitchatting, I would rather go and look after the troops so they are ready for our new commander.”  With heavy cloak swirling, Lith My’athar’s general turns and strolls out of the chamber, over six feet of barely contained violence and lethality.

“And there he goes again.” Nathyrra announces into the momentary silence that follows, accompanied by the Seer’s shaking of her head. “Going to sulk, no doubt. “ The drow sighs, and smiles at Adele. “And now that we successfully confused the Hells out of you, my sweet paladin, let us go and find you something to drink and eat, and a soft cushion to sit for you and your companion: there’s much to discuss.” She leans closer and confides in a low voice. “Don’t worry about our good general. As they say on the surface so aptly: he barks a lot, but doesn’t bite.” She winks. “Or so I hear, anyway.”


	2. Truce

2\.  

 

“I really don’t trust you, you know.”

“I am sorry to hear that, sir.” Adele tilts her head, examining Enserric’s blade; the new polish she was able to buy at the Lith My’athar marketplace is darker, stickier and far stinkier than she is used to, but it did its job. The bloodspots are gone, the danger or rust avoided; she can now concentrate on getting back to the city in one piece.

Preferably without the urge of throttling the flame-haired pain in the you-know-where she is stuck with.

“Is that because of what I am, or because what I am _not_?” At least, she has to concede, Enserric remains blessedly silent as she puts him back to the scabbard. He must be exhausted from their recent battles.

“What do you mean?”  

_Definitely, definitely part of my Penance of Duty_ , she thinks. _But he fights like no one I’ve ever seen before; and Torm knows I’ve seen enough fighting already._

“It’s really quite simple, General.” She stares out at the water: Cavallas’ boat is eerily silent, the boatman a barely visible silhouette at front, steering; Nathyrra a silent shadow by his side as she keeps watch. “As you are so fond of reminding me, I am a paladin of Torm, and viewed by The Seer and most of Eilistraee’s followers in Lith My’athar as their Savior. I am a newcomer to Lith My’athar, a human surfacer, one who was never under your command.  For you, I am, therefore, someone who swooped in uninvited, and who is threatening to take your place as the leader of those you fought so long to save.” She takes a long breath. “I’ve heard stories told about you, yes,” she continues calmly, allowing herself a wry smile. “Contrary to what you might believe, I _do_ talk to people: and I have ears as well.”

_This was coming for a while now_ , she thinks, looking sideways to Valen, who stands stiffly, hands clasped behind his back. _We might have been able to work together while he remained in the city and Nathyrra and Deekin accompanied me on that first mission_. But a couple of days ago, as she was sitting in her room at thon the upper level of the temple where Nathyrra with her charming but deadly efficiency commandeered a largish room for her upon the day of her arrival _(“one for you, one for your…kobold, Adele—after all, you are the second most important person next to the Seer in our city now”),_ Valen walked in, barely pausing after knocking, like a red-headed storm cloud swathed in glittering green armor, and growled that he would be going with her.

_“But sir…” she said, standing up awkwardly, since she held a rothe-parchment map of the river islands spread on her knees, “…with all due respect, isn’t your time and expertise better suited to directing the defense efforts of the city? A small team infiltration mission, even with its possibility of alliance negotiations, surely can be left in the hands of such independent agents of The Seer as I?”_

_She thought she was completely reasonable: she worked with enough know-it-all officers and nobles in several courts of the North to know that as long as she provided enough reports during the pre-and post-action briefings, they pretty much left her to operate alone and whatever way she deemed it necessary. Her title essentially boiled down to: ‘smites evil, will travel, works fast, has official blessing of large organization behind her’._

_Well, it did **not** go down well this time._

She shifts uncomfortably, remembering the way the man looked her up and down, eyes almost seething with ice-blue fire.

_“Is that so, Lady?” The way he stressed that word, Adele suspected he wanted to say something else._

_She didn’t move, just lifted her chin, returned his gaze and nodded, curtly: she stared down Lord Nasher himself once or twice back in the days, after all._

_“Then let me tell you something.” The outsider stepped closer, clearly attempting to intimidate her. “Your arrival here gave us a tactical advantage that I intend to utilize to its fullest potential. My mission is to protect the Seer and her people by any means necessary and to find the means of eliminating the threat the Valsharess represents. You,” he lifted a long-fingered, gloved hand and pointed at Adele, “are an asset in our war. Halaster might be addled in the brain, but by placing his geas on a paladin to aid us, he gave us a weapon that might just turn the tide in our favor.” His lips widened into a mirthless smile. “I’d not be worth my title if I wasn’t taking advantage of it. That doesn’t mean I am dazzled by your paladin charm and think you are our Savior; that doesn’t mean I trust you; that doesn’t mean I like you.“ His eyes narrowed. “After listening to your debrief on the avariel mission, I’ve decided that you and I together have a better chance to succeed at the island of the Maker. I am bringing Nathyrra to provide reconnaissance and spellcover. No other personnel are necessary, and we leave at four chimes tomorrow. Meet us at Cavallas’ pier—minimal gear. Muzzle your sword and leave your mutant pet dragon at home.”_

After that, the mission went pretty well, considering.  Adele calmed Deekin down (‘ _mutant pet dragon? Goat-man is the one to talk!_ ’), made sure he had enough parchment and ink to work on the next chapters of his new book, and showed up on time at the pier with no extra blankets but a spare sword and some more potions she found during a last-minute dash to the city wizard’s cramped store (the odd hours kept in Lith My’athar took some getting used to). She followed Valen’s orders all the way through with rigorous precision: they were good orders, sound and competent, considerate of mission objectives, team capabilities, even terrain and weapon types. The more she watched him, the more she was puzzled by the apparent dichotomy between his blood heritage and his behavior.

“I am surprised you did, truth to tell.” Valen says now, breath puffing out in a warm cloud in front of his face—it is chilly on the river. “Asking about me, I mean.”

“We are working together.” She shrugs. “I like to know the people I fight with.” She hears his vambraces click together as he shifts. “May I ask a question, sir?”

“From me, Lady?” Is that mock surprise she hears in his voice? “Aren’t you afraid I’d be lying anyway? Demonspawn, Abyss-born and all that?”

“The Seer trusts you with her life, and of all those with her.” Adele shakes her head. _No, this is not going to be simple. I wish my training would have prepared me for it._

_For him, for that matter._

 “You might not trust me, but you would give your life for them.” She stops for a second. “For her. That much I know.”

 “M-hm. And your question, Lady?” Valen’s voice is still gruff; Adele swallows and hopes the next few minutes will go well.

“You let me decide about the golems,” she says, watching his profile in the low light. “About which ones we sided with, I mean.”  She remembers the clanging voice of Ferron, leader of the metal golems, the way his head tilted awkwardly to the side, as if he wasn’t used to the motion. “ _We…we have discussed this and decided to make it our first act of decision born of freedom. We shall aid you against the darkness of She-Who-Enslaves.”_

 “You’ve made the decisions with everything else, but when it came to whether we support one group of the other, you ceded the leadership to me.”

“And?” asks Valen, voice deceptively mild and neutral.

 “I was wondering, sir, if that was a test.” Adele says equally blandly.

Valen snorts. For the first time since she met him, his shoulders lose some of their hunched tension as he returns her gaze frankly.

“I hoped you might figure it out,” he says, the frost in his eyes thawing a little bit.  A tiny, reluctant smile plays on his lips for a second, making him suddenly look younger. “Let’s just say you proved you are not nearly as pigheaded as most paladins I’ve met.”

“Most of them, sir?” Adele feels her eyebrows go up. “Just how many have you…” she pauses, considering for a second, ‘”… _met_?” She places the emphasis on that last word, throwing a glance at the large warflail resting by its master’s leg,  and is only a bit surprised to see a wide, almost feral grin flash through the outsider’s features.

“I’ve killed none of your kind, if that’s what you ask,” he says, almost amiably. “Few of those with divine calling walk the Planes, and those who do, usually have better things to do than getting involved in the Blood War.”

Adele blanches a bit, despite all her efforts. That is not one, but _two_ bits of crucial information she’s just learned about the general of Lith My’athar.

_And all I wanted is some peace and quiet and reasonably priced accommodations at a historical Waterdhavian inn_ … she thinks wrily. _This is what you get if you are a Special Envoy Plenipotentiary and want to have a vacation._

“Um, that is… a reassuring thought, sir.” She fumbles for a suitable answer while her mind is busy rearranging that information into a new pattern. “It probably means you will not bash my head in then, despite your intense dislike and distrust?”

Now there is _definitely_ something amused in the outsider’s eyes as he regards her.

“Only if you refrain from smiting me on account of my abyssal bloodline, Lady.”

Adele feels her own lips twist into a reluctant smile, and lets out the breath she didn’t even realize she was holding.

“It seems to me we’re at an impasse, then, sir,” she declares. 

“That we are.” Valen nods, still holding her gaze: Adele absently notes that he had a scattered flock of freckles across the bridge of his nose, which makes him look absurdly human despite the horn and tails. “So: truce, then?”

Adele’s training threatens to take over. The blood of the Abyss and the Nine Hells is notoriously unreliable and almost always leading those sharing it to the darker side—thus declare all her teachers, all her books, all the tomes in the grand library of Torm’s citadel in Tantras.

But she remembers that first touch of her divine senses when a tendril of her power touched the outsider’s aura back in that side chamber of the temple…

… _and where she expected the roiling cloud and flames of evil and wickedness, instead there was only ashes, rain and the memory of slowly throbbing and almost unbearably constant pain_ …

…something that was almost like…

 “Truce,” she hears herself say, her voice hoarse from memories she dearly wishes to forget.

… _dead piled high on streets; empty-eyed survivors huddling in corners…_

_…the stench of burning corpses…_

_…the mad laughter of inhuman throats, green-scaled fingers pulsing with magic…_

_…desert wind howling through the ruins of an ancient city…_

She bits down on the memories, hard, and hopes that none of that shows on her face.

“Truce, “she repeats, still feeling the ashes of all her victories on her tongue, and lifts a silent prayer to Torm that her dreams tonight be free of the nightmares of her past.


	3. Practice

 

 

She is at the practice field, chatting with Commander Imloth when he shows up. Adele feels distinctly uncomfortable butting in on what she observes definite friendship between the two and quietly excuses herself to work out some stiff muscles at a pell in a corner.

“Your guard is too high,” she hears behind her a while later, when she decides to rest.

“Sir?” She turns to see Valen standing there, thoughtful frown on his face as he regards her. Adele for a second feels embarrassed to be seen like this, leather jerkin, vambraces and light open helmet instead of full armor, practice sword dangling from her tired hand as she blinks to clear her eyes from the gathered sweat.

“You’re compensating for something.” He frowns again. “Not sure if it’s the lack of armor, or you’re just used to a certain fighting style, or certain opponents.” He extends an arm, and one of the drow soldiers from the side snaps to attention, running to his side with a smaller wooden version of the general’s warflail. “I would see again what you can do with an… unconventional opponent.”

“Ah.” Adele raises an eyebrow. “Because golems were… an everyday enemy easy to defeat?” She quietly fumes to herself: as if he knows _anything_ at all about all the opponents she’d faced in the past years as Errant Envoy Plenipotentiary. Golems are relatively low on her list of enemy ranking, true, but Valen really shouldn’t be supposing she’s _that_ green.

“More so than what we face next.” Valen grins grimly, hefting his weapon. “Something tells me that you haven’t had a chance to fight a lot of mindflayer thralls in your life. Or their masters, for that matter.”

“With all due respect, sir… are you patronizing me?” she inquires, probably a little more fiercely than she should be, even though it seems he really doesn’t have a very high opinion of her experience.  She had nightmares the past few days and although The Seer offered to help her somewhat by gently trying to coax some of her story out of her, that conversation didn’t help.  She is surprised herself that she is able to open up the way she did, but when meditating on it afterwards, she realized that this, too, was part of her Penance of Duty: not only aiding the priestess of Eilistraee against the evil that threatens to engulf her and her followers, but also allowing The Seer to help her, Adele Welters, once Hero of Neverwinter to exorcise the specters of her past, in a fashion.

So she’s still a bit raw, and fragile from that long talk, and doesn’t care at all about how he tries to question her ability to be what is needed; to do her duty.

_I can’t exactly brag about what I do; but one would think he got a measure of my capabilities on this trip. After all, that’s why he came with me to the Isle of the Maker, isn’t it?_

Her apparent belligerence doesn’t seem to have much effect on Lith My’athar’s general, though, despite lifted chin and narrowed eyes and all.

“I _could_ be… given the fact that I am probably much older than you,” He rubs his chin slowly, and she hears Imloth chuckle gently from the sidelines.

“Do not be deceived by those smooth cheeks, Adele,” the drow says, casually leaning on one of the archery targets. Adele realizes that by now a significant crowd (all the soldiers who were at the field when she arrived, practically) has gathered around them, and most of them are smiling. “The general is practically _ancient_.”

“Yes, my bones are creaking every morning I get out of bed.” Valen cracks his neck a few times, and Adele suddenly realizes that the two are actually joking.

Apparently at her expense.

And if she refuses to participate, she might as well give up the hope of ever becoming, in their eyes as well as in words, what the Seer needs.

What _her god_ needs.

“In that case…” she says slowly, shifting her weight to one leg, and lifting her blade, “I promise to be gentle. Sir.”

The bout is short, and vicious, and much needed, Adele realizes later. She  has a ton of tension in her that has little to do with the actual enemies she faced this far since that night in the Yawning Portal Inn, and a lot with the fact that there’s been no sunlight in her life for weeks now, that she can’t understand the drow language and a lot of Lith My’athar’s inhabitants don’t speak Common, that for the first time in her life she is completely cut off from communicating with her Order for more than a few days, or have access to even a little wayside shrine of the god to focus her powers and connect with anyone…

And, moreover, that she is forced to work with, nay, _to defer to, even_ , someone with  a significant amount of abyssal blood, which, in and of itself, would probably throw a less experienced soldier of Torm into constant battle frenzy.

 _Pride goeth, Adele_ … she reminds herself at the first second she sees the flail arcing up in Valen’s hand…and then she switches off thinking as the Lord of Paladins’ battle-time pushes all else but _here and now_ out of her mind.

Flails work with arcs and backswings, swords with lines along the six cardinals, she knows this, just like the fact that the outsider taller and stronger than her, with significantly more muscle mass. Yet despite of that, she finds herself closing the distance and, after ducking the first blow, moving _inside_ the flail’s ever-spinning arc, reversing her blade while doing so and slamming the pommel with all her momentum behind it from a low thrust, almost crouching, into Valen’s armpit, exposed as he twirled his flail in a high sweep.

And then they fall over, because just as she does so, the flail comes slamming _down_ as Valen yanks the handle back savagely and connects with the side of her helmet with a clang that echoes in her skull for seconds and brings her out from battle-time with a deafening ring.

 _At least I got him down_ … Adele thinks, shaking her head and trying to understand why every sound around her all of a sudden is as if it was coming from under water.

“Are you… _laughing_?” she asks, disbelieving, when she finally realizes that Valen, lying under her on the ground and making no effort to get up at all, is shaking in his whole body because he,  for some reason, thinks this is _fun_ …

“But of course I’m laughing,” he says when he can finally speak: Adele stares at him and entertains the notion for a second to insert her elbow into his sternum just for good measure. “I did exactly what you’ve done with your guard being too high and you did exactly how I would have countered it.” His chuckle is low now and rumbling, and his breath on her face is warm. “It was perfect. Did you use some paladin trick on me to read my wicked, wicked mind, Lady?”

Adele’s first instinct is to scramble up and stalk off, refusing to participate in this contest of who’s alpha in Lith My’athar (because she recognizes the pattern, she’s not a novice anymore), but she controls the impulse and draws in a deep breath, keenly aware of that tall, lean and disturbingly male body beneath her.

And of at least a dozen others who are watching, too.

So she shakes her head, forces out from the depths of her memory that slow smile combined with the lowering of her lashes that got her into trouble so much in  the Citadel of Tantras (if she’s honest with herself, she doesn’t have to even _force it_ that much), and responds.

“Why, sir… would you _like_ me to?” She twists, quick as thought, and is up from the ground, hand outstretched towards Valen, surrounded by the appreciative laughter of the drow.

The outsider accepts her arm, and vaults himself up with lethal grace that almost takes her breath away for a second. Adele is slightly shocked to see that he is blushing, especially after one of the watchers, a lean female, calls out something to her companion at her side in drow, and she sees them both to look Valen over with unmistakable appreciation.

 _Oh. Not **that** wicked after all, _ the thought runs through her mind and a little, perpetually tense part of her soul starts to relax.

Valen nods at her, experimentally flexing his right shoulder and wincing. Adele understands immediately (and this starts to terrify her somehow), and rubs the side of her neck, gingerly unlacing her helmet with an expression of barely contained pain.

“Nicely done,” they say almost exactly at the same time, and just like that, along with the surprised and relieved laughter finally bubbling out of her, Adele realizes something: her fear is gone, the path is clear and simple, and Torm, in his infinite mercy, led her to the right place after all.


	4. Devotions

Her quarters at the temple are surprisingly luxurious: enough that she actually looks forward to getting back to them after each mission. The drow of Lith My’athar are not poor, obviously eager to please The Seer and her Chosen, and trade still flows freely on the river enough that there’s no shortage of all manners of exotic goods that she’d never seen, smelled or tasted before. Sitting in a tub of steaming hot water scented with some perfumed oil and combing out her tangled locks with a finely carved bone comb, Adele reflects on the fact that there’s still a lot she doesn’t know about life in the Underdark. It’s a completely alien world that is rarely spoken of on the surface of Toril, and then only in the sense of ‘absolute darkness, evil and untold dangers’. And while she now can personally attest to the ‘untold dangers’ part (and she absently rubs her shoulder where an almost healed little pink scar reminds her of the agility of sword spiders and their eerie ability of dropping from stalactites and finding small gaps in armor), she can also definitely see that not only it’s far from being utterly dark, but terming it ‘absolute evil’ also requires correction. A while ago, after their first mission to the strange island with the city of the winged elves, she started to compile her impressions in a more organized fashion in writing, thinking that it might serve her Order if she ever gets out of here…

“ _Add that to Deekin’s constant scribbling, and we might just manage to get somewhere_ ,” she thinks, remembering how her kobold companion even manages to take notes after battles almost immediately, carefully noting the enemy’s numbers and composition, amending the narrative with quick but eerily lifelike sketches. “ _Although the next time he wants to publish my adventures, I definitely shall insist to go through the manuscript and edit. Also make sure he gets a good contract, with royalties._ ” She frowns, remembering Deekin’s sad story about how he was taken advantage of by practically all the humans in Waterdeep he encountered, and silently promises to herself not to let that happen again.

 _Provided I will not be summoned back to Tantras yet again for ‘debriefing_ ’, she thinks and makes a face, remembering the long, stern face of Mother Dia, heading the three-person committee that questioned her for days following the ‘Undrentide Incident’ as they called it.

The knock on her door catches her at the corner desk, adding notes to the end of a parchment roll she started after her first marketplace visit, and which lists an impressive amount of raw material types she’s encountered in the Underdark so far. 

“A moment!” She calls out, frowning a little: she didn’t expect anyone, and, truth to tell, was even looking forward to a little privacy that is not easy to get while out on a mission.

She puts the quill down, ties the sash of her spidersilk robe tighter just on principle and goes to the door, head still full of thoughts regarding kobolds, human prejudices and possible avenues to help.

“Master Scalesinger, if it’s you, I’m afraid I again need to decline your invitation to listen to…Oh.” She did _not_ expect The Seer standing on her doorstep, in her full priestess regalia. “Mother Seer…” she stammers out a greeting, bows awkwardly and tries in vain to smooth down her still-wet hair.

“Adele, child.” The Seer smiles at her gently. “I did not realize you were…” She makes an elegant gesture at Adele’s house-robe and the tub behind her.

“Of no matter.” Adele shakes her head. “I always have time for you.” She steps aside so the older woman can enter. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“I was merely curious if… you have finished with your evening devotions yet.” The Seer hesitates. “I realize that this might be an unusual request, but I’ve raised the issue to my sisters and we have no objection, should you wish to say your prayers with us tonight and from now on whenever you are here. As you know, the main hall of the Temple has been… cleansed from the remnants of Lolth’s cult, and thus it is suitable for our congregation’s ceremonies. I wish to offer you the opportunity to join us whenever you feel the need. Worshipping alone is fine and well, when you’re on the road, but…” Again that radiant smile.  “Plainly spoken: you’re one of us, Adele. You’ve proven yourself a true defender of our goddess, and our people. You are always welcome in the Dark Maiden’s Circles in Lith My’athar.”

“Mother Seer, I…” Adele is suddenly at a loss for words. She knows the protocol, the polite answers, and the words of acceptance or gentle refusal: all of them. They were taught to her while a novice quite well; still, the invitation right here and right now catches her unawares. She blinks at the tall, regal priestess in front of her, who dreamed of her coming, who welcomed her to the city with warm smile and quiet gratitude for deeds yet to be performed, who convinced her followers and allies in the city to accept her, the surface warrior of a different god, and who, apparently, understands very well the deepest needs of her heart.

And she understands that this is one of those invites that absolutely cannot be refused if one calls herself the true follower of her god.

“I am honored, “she says finally, and tries to hide the trembling in her voice in vain as she bows, with honest gratitude. “I would like that; very much.”

It is at once familiar and weirdly alien; welcoming and warm and yet different enough that she is grateful for the corner chapel The Seer offers her when they finally descend to the temple hall. Eilistraee’s worshipers call their service “The Circle of Song”, and the name doesn’t lie. The priestesses, clad in white and silver sit interspersed with the faithful in a great circle (Adele understands now why The Seer prefers to listen to her post-mission reports sitting cross-legged in a cushion in her little study chamber), and take turns to lead the congregation as one by one they stand, gracefully bow and lift their voices in song while their feet traces the marble floor in a complicated dance in which, Adele has no doubt, every step has strict ritual significance. There are little silver bells woven into their long tresses that chime along with their clear voices; the whole ceremony is charming and almost mesmerizing, as the great silver magelight , hanging from the ceiling (and which represents the moon, sacred to Eilistraee, The Seer explained to her shortly after she arrived to the city) shines it enchanted lights to the congregation. Adele can easily see the remnants of surface rituals in everything they do, thousands of years of hiding etching the precise moves of the dance and the cadences of the songs into their memories, passed down from generation to generation of priestesses and taught in secret… and yet, the faces turning upwards in the silver light mirror nothing but joy over the fact that they are _here_ , together, joined in song and dance, and, at least for a little while, imagine themselves to truly be on the surface, under the light of the hunter moon.

She has heard little echoes of their worship often enough from her chambers upstairs, but the beauty of the whole thing surpasses her imagination a hundredfold. In the privacy of the chapel she kneels on the small carpet The Seer’s acolytes thoughtfully provided to her, and says her own prayers, the rolling chant of the prescribed litany filling her with familiar calm and strength. She includes her thanks for this evening, for The Seer’s kindness and wisdom, for the joy in the voice of her followers, for their soothing silver magelight: for the chance to feel the sense of _belonging_ and to witness the very reasons that she is fighting for every time she leaves Lith My’athar. The tugging of Halaster’s geas faded almost completely from her heart: it’s still there, of that there’s no doubt, but it’s no longer the reason why she’s here, why she battles and bleeds and is ready to die for these men and women. It is _this_ , she realizes as the last syllables of her prayers are said and she rises from the carpet, fist over her heart closed then opened in the sign of Torm. It is the song of many, raised in praise and in hope that there is light in the darkness, that there is hope in the night, and that one day those voices will sing the same melodies accompanied by silver bells under the true moonlight of the Silver Lady.

“Please, Lord,” Adele whispers, leaning against a slender pillar and watching Nathyrra, slender and deadly Nathyrra, the once feared assassin and killer, meandering in dance amongst the rest of the worshippers, her face carefree and full of joy like she’s never seen before, “please, make it so.”

Her dreams are free of nightmares for the first time since she’s arrived to Waterdeep weeks before.


	5. Little Things

It’s all in the little things.

The way Valen moves to her side almost immediately when he hears the duergar slaver offering to sell her the mind-protecting helmet for ‘services rendered from a comely female such as you’, shoulders hunched and lips baring teeth in a snarl. He is only a fraction of a second faster than Deekin piping up _‘ uh-oh, you really shouldn’t have said that to Boss’_ , but still, it’s unmistakable, and once the slavers all lay dead, Adele inclines her head and thanks him.

“I know you can take care of yourself, Lady,” he says with by now customary gruffness, then shrugs. “However, there’s no reason anyone should talk to you like that, just because you have…” here he stammers a bit and, Adele notes with amusement, his cheeks color faintly, “…well, just because you are not a man, I mean.”

…

The way Adele’s eyes narrow and her hand clenches into a fist by her side upon seeing the first mindflayer slaves wandering around with vacant smiles on their faces. Her breathing quickens for a second and she quells it with a deep swallow, but her eyes harden to gray chips of basalt under that awful helmet’s browridge and her steps quicken as she turns towards the shallow bowl of the arena where the slave auctions are supposed to be held.

“With your permission, sir, I am reassessing our priorities regarding negotiating with the illithid about their support of the Valsharess,” she says with deceptive mildness as they look at the scene of a barely-clad human woman being paraded around on a collar and chain and being praised for her ‘unusual ferocity in combat and the womanly arts’. “In fact, I believe that option has just been taken off the table.” She caresses Enserric’s hilt with an almost gentle motion, then turns to Deekin. “Master Scalesinger, may I have a financial assets report please? I wish to make a… purchase today.”

…

The way Valen immediately takes off his cloak and gently wraps it around the woman when she is handed over to them. The way he’s standing there quietly while Adele talks to the slave, whose every movement speaks of long years of abuse; the way he nods almost imperceptibly as Adele, realizing that there’s no other way to do it, haughtily throws a few pieces of gold to the woman and orders her with as much coldness and authority as she can muster, to go, purchase supplies, and deliver a message with all haste to the city of Lith My’athar’s Lolth temple. Her voice is raised, so those around them hear and understand clearly, and Deekin whispers quietly that the illithid who followed them from the auction site withdrew, content that they were just another group of slavers.

“She’ll be taken care of by The Seer and Nathyrra,’ she says quietly when the woman rushes off, still wearing her rags, her slave collar and Valen’s cloak, clutching the little piece of scrap paper she scribbled a few words on.  “Sorry about your cloak, sir,” she adds, and grimaces. “I’ll try to get you another one next time I get the chance.” Her eyes are very bright.

“Don’t worry about it.” Valen says and, for the very first time since he knows her, reaches out and gently squeezes her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“As soon as every one of these sons of bitches is dead, I’ll be just fine,” she snaps savagely, then gulps. “Sorry, sir. I haven’t cursed since I became a warrior for Torm. This place is…getting to me. I…” she stops and swallows thickly, her fingers touching her chest where her god’s holy symbol hides under her jerkin. “Just let’s go and be done.”

…

The way Adele stops at every single fallen gladiator slave from the Pits as they finally leave the smoking ruins of Zorvak’Mur’s main illithid compound behind.  The moves she is going through are the same: go down on one knee, one hand reaching out to gently close the eyes, another to pull a piece of clothing over the face if possible. The pale lips utter a short prayer, the brows draw down determinedly: Adele stands up, looks around and continues down the winding path. Enserric is drawn in her hands, but is silent since it took the Overbrain’s life. Deekin is quiet, very quiet, on occasion throwing a worried glance at her as they hurry towards the gates amongst the sounds, smells and sights of chaos their arrival and the rebellion they instigated thrown the city.

“I completed the mission.” Adele whispers much later, when they are in the relative safety of their camp in a small cave, halfway back to the river. They risk a fire, because her teeth were chattering audibly towards the end of their march, and Valen overrules her objections mercilessly.

 Deekin lits their fire, with a carefully modulated cough from deep his throat, and looks at them as if it was the absolute most natural thing that ever happened. “You…can breathe fire now?” Adele says then, eyes widening, and the little kobold just shrugs. “Deekin learns things,” he answers and goes on to find some rations in their packs.

Valen looks up at her whispered words now: Deekin is already curled up and sleeping in a corner, little snoring noises coming from him accompanied by tiny puffs of smoke from his nostrils at each exhale.

“Yes, you did, Lady,” he says, brows creased with worry. “Most admirably so, if you ask me. So what’s bothering you?”

Adele grimaces.

“Not a very heroic story, but… since you’ve asked, sir. Last time…” she begins haltingly, “…I killed the bad guys but I’ve failed the mission. I was tasked with guarding and preserving the life of a…” she hesitates. “You probably don’t know what a Harper agent is, sir?” Valen shakes his head. “Right. A…member of a secret society that… shares the interests of my Order and thus, by the Penance of Duty, we’re compelled to aid them. I was…dispatched to make sure he came to no harm from agents of a certain Power that was, as we discovered later, threatening to unleash untold destruction by reviving an ancient flying city with an artifact he was in possession of.”

“A succinct summary of something that is probably a long tale.” Valen says carefully and Adele nods, staring at the flames. “What happened?”

“When we realized what exactly was going to happen, and how, there was very little time to make decisions.” She bites her lip. “Master Drogan, my… the mage I was supposed to guard and I reactivated a portal that was used by our adversary to flee with the activation statue of the city, and discovered that there was a trap woven into its magic. By our enemy.” She lets the air out in almost a sigh. “I wanted to stay and evacuate Master Drogan, to pray to Torm for some miracle, I am not sure. But he… ordered me to go and stop the woman. He said that was more important than the life of some cranky old wizard who already saw everything there was: so he stayed behind to keep the portal open until I got through.” Her voice is brittle and without any emotion, as if she is citing a written action report. “I crossed through, pursued her, and after some brief delay, managed to destroy her and the entire flying city before it could cause any harm.”

“So you saved countless lives.  Stopped an ancient machine from wreaking untold destruction. You killed the bad guy.” Valen shrugs. “I don’t quite understand…”

“No you don’t, sir.” Adele shakes her head. “The mission was to save Master Drogan at any cost, even the cost of my life.  He ordered me not to do that. He ordered me to go and in doing so, made me fail at my duty.”

“But you would have died otherwise.” Valen says slowly. “Surely your Order and your god can’t ask you to lay your life down uselessly when you had a chance to succeed.”

“I failed the mission,” she repeats stubbornly. “Master Drogan died, I did not recover the mythallar, and the city of Undrentide has risen. I had to destroy it to stop Heurodis. I was there—I was supposed to die there.”

“And you didn’t.” Valen’s voice is slow. “As someone probably told you already, your god must have had a plan for you if you got out.” He scoffs. “If nothing else, then sending you here to aid us. I am certainly no authority on matters divine, but even I can see something not quite ordinary in that.” One hand reaches out, rests on Adele’s shoulder again. “I’m sorry that someone had to die that you obviously cared for, but you did good: then and today, Adele. You did good. And at the end, that’s what counts: not what some paper-pushers of your order no doubt said.”

She startles at him using her first name the first time since they’ve met, and Valen, sensing her surprise, pulls his hand back quickly.  

“Regarding our mission here, you’ve assessed the situation correctly. The price the Elder Brain has asked for was too much,” he continues instead, voice brisk, “as we couldn’t afford to cede the possession of such powerful artifact as the Mirror to them. The Underdark already suffers enough from the Valsharess’ successful attempts to consolidate power in one hand: we do not need a unified, strong illithid empire to rise as well—which undoubtedly would have happened, had they received the Mirror. We not only broke Zorvak’Mur today: we also won some allies and experienced fighters once those freed slaves reach Lith My’athar after plundering the city.” He grins at Adele’s surprised expression. “I took the liberty of speaking with a few or their scouts and sending a message to the leaders while you were, ah, otherwise engaged during our withdrawal from the city. They’ll regroup and advance towards Lith My’athar at their earliest opportunity, once they finish off the last thrall resistance points in the city.”

Adele nods.

“That is… great news, sir,” she says slowly, and her eyes are less feverish now. “Thank you. For that and… you know.”

“The Underdark takes some getting used to, however much experience you have topside; you are acclimatizing well, considering. “ He nods, then stops, and looks at her with definite mock surprise this time, voice lightening up a bit. “Wait _just_ a minute. Did you just thank a demonspawn, paladin?” He gestures at his horns. “I meant to ask you earlier, you know, but we were busy somewhat. But this is just as good a time as any. Does _this_ … bother you?”

“The horns and tails bit?” Adele reaches into the fire with a small, dry root and pulls it together carefully before answering. “We paladins can’t lie, sir, so forgive the complete honesty, since you asked a direct question.” Valen nods and watches her with steady eyes. “It irritated the hells out of me first that I had to work with you.”  Her words are slow and pondering, as if she mulls this over for the first time. “We didn’t exactly meet under the best circumstances, after all, and you must admit that your kind doesn’t necessarily have the best reputation in my circles.” Valen snorts, but remains silent so Adele continues. “After that, I was too busy learning the ropes to afford any second opinions about the man The Seer entrusted with her people and her own life. However, like I said, I asked around about you and literally everyone was _both_ terrified of you and admired you to the point of hero worship. I heard the stories of how you pulled them together and kept them alive during the retreat of Eilistraee’s Chosen to Lith My’athar when the Valsharess attacked. I guess my prejudices suffered greatly in the light of direct evidence.” She looks up, directly into his eyes. “I was taught to judge people by their actions, not by their looks; and what you did, what you do every day for your chosen people, sir, is something every good man would be proud of.” Adele takes a deep breath.  “An old, very wise man once told me something that maybe should be etched over every paladin’s holy symbol, so there is less prejudice in the world: ‘You are/What you do/When it counts.’“ She shrugs. “Although that was kind of the long-winded way to go about it, I guess what I want to say, is that no; it doesn’t bother me anymore, sir.”

There’s a brief silence after that, not uncomfortable, accompanied by only the noises of the fire crackling.

“Valen.” The outsider says suddenly, as if he came to a decision. “My name’s Valen: and I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady.”

“Oh.” Now it’s Adele’s turn to blush as she awkwardly stretches out a hand, and there’s a real smile on her face as they shake with a firm grip for the first time since they’ve met. “Adele, please, sir… ah, I mean…”

“It’s all right.” Valen says, also smiling, still holding her hand. “It will take a while, I suspect.”

“Yes.” Adele murmurs, looking at him with little reflections from the fire dancing in her eyes. “I reckon it will.”

…

It’s the little things that lay hidden, take root, and grow.


	6. Drinking Games

She is browsing the weaponsmith Rizolvir’s offering for this week, enjoying the forge heat and listening to the thin, all-sinew drow lecturing his apprentice about the advantages of quenching this way or another when  someone suddenly speaks up behind her.

“I wonder when you have time to sleep. You are everywhere these days, I am told.”

Adele spins around, and stares into Valen’s face with mild annoyance.

“I _did_ know you were there, you know,” she says, hands on hips, chin up belligerently. “You might be quiet enough, but unfortunately for you, the aura…”

“Yes, I know.” Valen nods, stepping around her so he too can take a look the pair of daggers she was admiring on Rizolvir’s ‘new and special’ table. “One of the reasons I can find you this easily in the tenday market crowd is keeping track of just how much my skin itches. When it gets to when I would really, really want to shuck off all the clothes and scratch until I bleed, I just look up, and there you are!”

“You are joking, sir.” Adele stares at him, not quite sure if she should believe anything he just said because, for Torm’s sake, if that’s true, why didn’t he say something before?

“Already forgot my name, hm?” He grimaces as the skin around his eyes twitches. “And no, I don’t.”

“But…” Adele‘s thoughts are chasing each other in her head wildly. “I am sorry…how do you stand it? Me, I mean, if I make you so…uncomfortable?” She feels annoyed and embarrassed at the same time: this is obviously one of those things that should be covered in basic training, yet none of her teachers mentioned how outsiders might react to paladin auras _. A potentially dangerous omission, this definitely should be included in my report_ … “The proximity when we’re on a mission…Gods, no wonder you avoid me when we’re back!” she blurts out finally, and then bites her lips as he sighs and shakes his head.

“Blazes and demonflames, Lady, must you take everything so seriously?” Adele notes yet again that even out of armor he commands the space around him, as if he wears those winged pauldrons and heavy breastplate all the time, so much that they became invisible parts of him.

 _Or maybe he’s simply admired that much,_ part of her mind idly supplies, as the crowd around them clears to a respectful distance and the last of Rizolvir’s browsing crowd departs the shop. _If you are being honest with yourself, even you appreciate just how wide those shoulders are…_

“So you _were_ joking after all,” she says quickly, unable to control the light blush spreading on her cheeks now. “It’s _not_ nice to treat a battle-worn and tired paladin like that, you know.”

“Right. She might smite me after all, and then I _really_ will be in trouble.” Valen grins; Adele has to reluctantly agree that their fragile trust since the illithid city’s destruction seems to be holding up very well.

So it really doesn’t occur to her _not_ to continue the banter in the same manner as if they were old comrades. She misses that most of all from her Tantras days: as a Special Envoy she can hardly form friendships with those she works with. During her Neverwinter assignment, fresh out of novitiate, she kept a careful distance from everyone and did everything by the book; after that she got a bit too busy, and… well, since Master Drogan she simply learned to keep her inner self carefully guarded.

She misses it, though: the comradeship, the sense of belonging. In her brutally honest moments she needs to admit that Lith Myh’athar’s outsider general has a lot more common with her than she cared to admit at first.

And that’s why she decides that this might as well be worth a shot.

“Oh, I don’t know.” She raises an eyebrow and smiles slowly. “If I smite you, you _just_ might itch even more. And there might be a few ladies around who may be interested in seeing you…how did you say it?” She pronounces the phrase carefully, drawing little quotation marks in the air with her fingers. “‘Shuck off’ some clothes…?”

 _I win_ , she thinks with barely contained triumph as she sees the spreading red on Valen’s cheeks, and hears his low laughter.

“All right, you got me,” he says when he stops chuckling and Adele feels a faint regret that he did so. “But I must say, I never in my life would have thought that a paladin can be this… _wicked_ , Adele.”

“Gah.” She waves a hand in the air expensively. “You call _this_ wicked? Remind me to tell you one day the story of what we did in my third year as a novice to Father Marloin involving a dozen frogs, three buckets and an innovatively used Ray of Frost wand.”

“Can’t wait.” Valen’s eyes twinkle. “You were right; I perhaps…exaggerated the negative effects of your proximity.”

“But it’s still there, right?” she asks, and can’t help but feel a bit sad.

“Yes, but you know what they say?” Valen leans closer to the table where Rizolvir displayed the daggers and one of his fingers traces the finely etched runes a hair’s breadth from the slightly longer blade in the air. “You were looking at these for Nathyrra?”

“Hmm?” Adele says absently as she admires a pair of vambraces next to it. “No, what do they say? And yes.”

“Well, at least where I’m from they say to heal a dog bite you need the dog’s hair.” Valen pulls out his money pouch and throws it to Rizolvir. “A great choice; she needs a new pair, definitely.”

“Dog’s bite?” Adele blinks: they are carrying out two separate conversations at once it seems, and although it is strangely enjoyable, the last exchange throws her a bit.

“Sorry, forgot there for a moment that you’re from the Prime, not Sigil.” Valen grabs the daggers and slides them in their sheaths displayed next to them. “It was merely an old saying that was applicable for the situation.” He turns and looks at her expectantly. “If you want me to itch less, I need to get more used to your aura. Therefore, more time in your company. Have you eaten today?”

“I’m…what?” Adele feels her head spinning a bit, and lifts a hand. “Hold the horses just a tiny bit, sir: did you just get that pair of daggers I intended to purchase for our mutual friend and paid for them, casually told me where you came from and asked me out to dinner, all in the same breath?”

“What can I say…? I live dangerously, Lady.” Valen bows. “Since you insist on formalities so much, I shall try to adapt.” He holds out an arm. “There’s a place not far from here that does unbelievable things to rothe flank steak.”

“Anything that improves on rothe meat is a miracle of the third degree.” Adele mutters and finds herself accepting the offered arm with ease. “Let me guess: mushroom sauce with rothe milk cream?”

Valen shudders.

“Ye gods and little fishes, nothing of the sort!” He glances at her amusedly as they leave Rizolvir’s shop; Adele waves good bye to the smith and he bows in return deep enough that she feels oddly embarrassed. “That would be far too sophisticated for Lith My’athar, I’m afraid. No, they merely sear the everloving Abyss out of it and add the drow version of Hell.” He smiles at Adele’s expression and clarifies. “It’s called _s’riirc’nacha_. Don’t ask what it’s made of it you want to sleep ever again, but it is…let’s just say it’s a uniquely fiery concoction that I could compare to many things, but most of those would deeply hurt your gentle sensibilities.”

“Oh?” Adele lifts an eyebrow. “I _have_ gentle sensibilities?”

“Lady, with all due respect, I will _not_ tell you how similar hot sauces are called where I’m coming from.” Valen shakes his head; locks of his red hair flutter around his face and Adele has to resist the urge to stop and smooth them back behind his elegantly upswept ears.

The urge to touch him persists all the way to the little eatery they end up at.  It serves two types of food only: a noodle soup with four different types of fungi Adele eyes with deep distrust, and the meat dish Valen was talking about, consisting of small strips of rothe meat seared over high heat on the open stove and then piled on a plate precariously high. The _s’riirc’nacha_ , served in a bowl, is bright red, and when she bites down on her first forkful of meat seasoned with it, she feels like her mouth, nose and throat just had been scrubbed down with something approaching the consistency of molten steel.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Valen says, as he takes another bite, then another… Adele stares at him through her tears. “Want more hot sauce?”

“Gods, Valen…” she manages to choke out after a second or two, “…what manner of creature _are_ you? No, I had enough of hot sauce, thank you… Do you see these in my eyes?” She points at her face. “They are called _tears_. “

Valen leans back on his chair.

“I bet you can breathe _really_ well now, though, “he says, and as he smiles, Adele suddenly isn’t sure whether she’s flushed from the heat of the sauce, or from something else. “Sorry, Lady, I couldn’t resist.”

“Imp,” she huffs, but spears another piece of meat on her fork, shaking her head. _“Insufferable_ imp,” she amends, just to be precise, but she’s smiling through her pain.

“Wrong family of fiends.” Valen shakes his head, spooning another dose of liquid pain on his meat. “What kind of paladin _are_ you, mixing it up like that?”

“Obviously insane.” Adele murmurs, casting about with eyes full of even more tears as she finishes her second piece of meat and waves a hand. “Drink? Please.” She adds, because, after all, paladins are always polite.

 _Almost_ always; and even when their mouth is on fire.

“Oh, definitely.” Valen says, and lifts a little bottle that looks suspiciously simple, the liquid in it almost colorless. “I need to test a theory.”

“Torm save us, sir, what’s that?” she asks, only slightly disturbed by the ease with which they start to treat each other like old comrades on a very, very intense campaign. “I shudder to think where you got it from.”

“Trust, Lady, trust.” Valen clicks his tongue, then slowly pours into the two tiny cups their surly drow server left on their table earlier. “I thought we’ve established a…rapport already.”

“A rapport, sure.” Adele turns the little cup between her fingers. “I’m just curious to know if you want to make me drunk.” She looks up at him. “Because, you know, in that case I need to make you aware of one of the less-known facts about paladins.”

“Oh?”  One pale red eyebrow, slightly cocked. “Are you telling me you hold your drink…wickedly well?”

“No.” Adele stretches her legs under the table more comfortably, because this is going to be a long night. “Just don’t get hangovers.”

“Ever?” That sounds way too much like a challenge, complete with both eyebrows waggling, and Adele never in her life ran from one.

“Ever-ever,” she says, enunciating clearly, and lifts one of the cups from the table. “And paladins don’t lie.” And now it’s her turn to cock an eyebrow. “Are you in, then?”

“Wouldn’t think about disappointing a lady.” Still locking eyes with him, Valen lifts his own cup. “Do you play drinking games if you’re a holy warrior?”

Adele scoffs.

“Drinking games?  Drinking games are for amateurs…we had drinking _events_. We had this huge tankard shaped like a boot at the Tantras Temple, where I got my mantle…it was part of the unofficial investiture ceremony for every newly minted knight. We sat around the table at the end of the festivities, and kept up the drinking with the older knights. The boot you couldn’t put on the table, because, well, who puts a boot on the table in polite company…so it stayed in hand all the time, passed from one to the other, constantly refilled.” She takes a sip from her cup and breathes deeply. “Good times.”

“Mmmm.” Valen nods and follows her example with the drink. “Tantras, then? Is that where you’re from?”

“Oh. _That_ kind of a game.” Adele allows a slow smile, because really, she hasn’t felt this relaxed in quite a long time, and nods. “City by The Dragon Reach, way east from here on the surface, of course. Born and raised, chosen for Torm, attending the Temple novice training then consecrated. I’ve left when His Excellency transferred the mantle of Special Errant Envoy Plenipotentiary on me and sent me to Neverwinter.” Another sip. “But that’s another story. Your turn: so you’re from the Planes? From Sigil, right?”

“I see you are well educated, Lady,” he says, with a slight frown between his brows. “Are you familiar with the City, then?”

“Purely academic knowledge, I’m afraid.” Adele shakes her head. “I was a voracious reader, and… the library of the Temple of Torm’s Coming prides itself on containing a wide array of tomes.”

“Sigil, City of Doors.” Valen pours to both of them again. “Supposed center of the multiverse, hovering on top of the Spire, ruled by The Lady of Pain: you know all that, then?”

“Yes…but I’ve never met anyone from there.” Adele drinks. “What is it like?”

“Dark. Crowded. Full of razorvine, the rain is often toxic, the streets are muddy, dangerous and trod by beings of every manner imaginable, from planetars of Celestia to devils of the Nine Hells.” He grimaces. “I miss it.”

“You can’t go back, then?” Adele asks cautiously: there’s something there that her fine-tuned senses are warning her about.

“One day, perhaps.” His smile is full of sorrow. “How about you, now? Tantras holds your family as well as the memories of you becoming who you are?”

“They are still there, yes.” Adele swirls her drink. “My father serves in the Tantras Navy: he’s actually the subcommander of the fleet. It is small, but with the backing of the Tormtar, it dominates the middle of Dragon’s Reach. My mother comes from a large merchant family in the city, and I have an older brother and a younger sister. In our neck of the woods, the middle child usually leaves home by tradition, the oldest inherits the family business, the youngest stays home to make sure the parents are cared for when they get old.” She grins. “My sister hates it, and already ran away three times. The talks my mother insisted I had to have with her when last time I was there…” She shrugs. “We’re very traditional, and very boring. I try to send letters whenever I can as I travel a lot, and they would expect me to be home for each Midwinter to hang the wreaths and play with my brother’s children: he already has four. Me being a Martyr’s Progeny, the family is keen on replenishing the numbers, just in case the talent runs in the family…”

“I’m sorry?” Valen breaks in, clearly intrigued. “Progeny of what?”

“My apologies; you being a planewalker complicates this game somewhat. It’s a term applied to Tormtar who were too young at a very special time of our history. In my case, I was eleven.” Adele says and her face clouds a bit as she remembers. “Next round, I’ll explain. Am I allowed to ask about _your_ family now?”

There’s a just a moment of hesitation the other side of the table.

“Nothing as such.” Valen says finally; he empties his cup completely this time and refills without pause. “I’m not going to insult your intelligence by asking whether you know what my particular subset of outsiders is called.”

“The horns-and-tails bit was kind of a giveaway.” She makes a face. “But I thought we already established that you being a tiefling doesn’t bother me.”

“I’ll miss you when you’re gone, woman of brains,” Valen suddenly says fondly, and Adele’s eyes widen a bit at that. He sees it, and lifts a hand almost immediately, hastening to add. “My apologies, Lady, that was…”

“No, it’s fine, fine,” she says quickly, then tilts her head to a side and probes a bit deeper. “What’s this with the ‘when you’re gone’ bit, though, sir? It’s not that I can even move from Lith My’athar and environs until the Valsharess is defeated: you know my geas wouldn’t let me even if I…wanted to go? Which I don’t.”

“Good.” He nods emphatically, and Adele’s trying to convince herself that her heart sped up just because of the drinks. “I’m glad to hear that.” He clears his throat. “At any rate, back to your question. Otherwise I’d lose and I never do.” Adele huffs, but he waves it away imperiously. “Just watch,” he says, and swallows his drink in one gulp.  His voice breaks a little as he continues. “So since you know where little tieflings come from, I’ll not bother with educating you about cambions, which is what my father was.  Luckily I’ve never met him, and this is not the place to entertain you with my suspicions about his identity. My mother was fully human, though.”

“Sorry,” Adele would need to be completely numb not to feel the pain in Valen’s voice. “Not all paladins are insensitive jerks, sir. I imagine it was hard growing up like that.”

“You can say that.” He drinks again, blue eyes cloudy with memories. “And yes, you and I are probably outliers in our respective groups.” He shudders. “Especially me. Using big words like that, instead of just smashing through rows of devils and eating their hearts straight from their chests on the battlefield, gulping their blood as a chaser afterwards.” He grabs hold of Adele’s hand; the grip is surprisingly strong. “The Seer’s washed-up pet tiefling: I came a long way. If I told you that what I just said about devils and their hearts isn’t just a figure of speech, paladin, would you still stay here and keep up drinking?”

 “By Torm’s name: you were in the _Blood War_.” Adele breathes, unsteadily; the pleasant haze of alcohol dissipates fast and her limbs are cold.  She is familiar with the term and the vague issues that surround the endless carnage between devils and demons raging across the Planes, as the specialized training that was hers included lectures from the order’s most experienced demon hunters on the subject.  She suddenly understands his incredible prowess in battle, his bouts of sudden and explosive ferocity that leave shattered skulls and broken body parts behind him as he stalks their opponents, the way he looks just before they enter the fray with the little flames of red in his eyes he thinks he can hide when she’s not looking…

“You told me: You are/What you do/When it counts.” Valen quotes, leaning closer across the table: she can smell the alcohol on his breath. “So what do you think I am, if I tell you I did things in that war that would curdle your blood and make your eyes bleed and sanity fray around the very edges of your reason? If I told you that until The Seer claimed me, I was nothing but one part of a mindless, frenzied horde of unspeakable terror to serve an insane cause in a war that spans hundreds of planes and thousands of centuries?”

Adele is about to open her mouth to answer, but he  kicks his chair back, stands up suddenly,  and throws a few pieces of silver on the table.

“Don’t say anything, paladin, that you might regret later when you’re sober.” His tail swishing wildly, he straightens, and it’s Lith My’athar’s general again standing there, with a weight of pain in his eyes that makes Adele dizzy. “This was a mistake, and for that I apologize—I should have never asked you to do this. You are a human.  By definition, it is right and proper for you to empathize with other beings.  It is humanity’s great strength, and its great weakness.” Those red flashes in his eyes are there again, the ones she only ever saw in the midst of battle before. “I am part fiend.  By definition, it is right and proper for me to engage in madness and slaughter. Most halfbreeds of my lineage go homicidally insane.  That is to say, they simply act according to their proper nature. But saying that me being a tiefling doesn’t matter is _also_ a mistake, Adele. Do not _ever_ let it cease to bother you.”

He indicates the coins on the table.

“I clearly lost; the tab is paid, as custom dictates. I’ll see you in the morning in the strategy room for our next planning session. The Chasm of the Eye Tyrants is our next target: rest up.”


	7. Darkness and Light

“So what does that tablet say?”

“I have absolutely no idea…” Adele stares at the glyphs on the rough-hewn stone. “But after everything else we found, I wouldn’t be surprised if this is a recipe for kobold stew.”

“Boss be joking like that, Deekin will not tell her what writing say.” Deekin’s dark eyes glint with definite annoyance, which is unusual. “Did boss see those large pots back in storage room thataway? Attiz say those _were_ for kobold stew.”

“Sorry, Master Scalesinger.” Adele smoothes back her sweaty hair from her forehead. “Not my best day. My apologies for the joke.”

“Is okay.” Deekin nods. “Not that Boss could understand what Attiz say anyway: Deekin knows kobold isn’t Boss’ forte.” Scaly fingers reach out, pluck the tablet out of Adele’s hands with surprising strength, place it on the ground. “Let‘s see…hmmm.” Deekin’s voice lowers into murmur as the little kobold reaches up to make an additional magelight directly above the tablet. “Early version of Creator script, very interesting…”

“I _knew_ it was familiar from somewhere.” Adele slams a fist on the chest in which the stone tablet rested until she opened it. “Wait, are you saying that you can read it…?”

“Might; but it takes time.” Deekin answers absently, kneeling next to the tablet.

“Then we should rest here.” Valen says curtly, already busy wedging the heavy door shut. “I’d think we earned it.”

“Seconded.” Adele carefully lowers herself to the floor, feeling the exhaustion in all of her limbs. “Water?”

“Here.” Valen tosses a flask to her. She takes a swig, closes her eyes as the cool liquid finally reaches her throat, and thinks about the nice little predicament they’re in.

It was an exhausting march across oddly-shaped chambers and doors in semi-darkness; the beholders prefer a warm, humid atmosphere maintained in their quarters that settles on Adele like a miasmic aura of some carnivorous jungle in faraway Chult. They keep kobold slaves, and Deekin, since running into the first one and chattering away in their own language for a long time, is very quiet and uncharacteristically testy. Adele herself doesn’t fare better: the beholders are, in her opinion, the nastiest enemies she had to face so far in her career. They team up, using multiple magic attacks that pound them constantly with waves of energies that take all of her powers to deflect. They also have the annoying habit of zipping out of sight with incredible speed once wounded, then jumping at their backs from invisible secret nooks and crannies. And they are silent. Almost completely, except for the wet, disgusting splatting sounds they make when they die.

All of that, compounded with the knowledge that somewhere in the depth of the labyrinthine caverns hides the beholders’ leader who, according to the reports and briefings with The Seer earlier in Lith My’athar, is the oldest, meanest and most magically accomplished of all of its subjects… _Hit hard and fast and don’t stop_ , was what Commander Imloth advised, who survived a skirmish against the eye tyrants earlier that year, and Adele swears quietly that if they get back in one piece, she buys the wiry drow a drink of his choice for that.

“If you want to catch some sleep while your kobold figures that tablet out, I got first watch.” Adele looks up as Valen sits down next to her, Devil’s Bane, his warflail leaning against his side.

“I just might.” Adele learned a long time ago not to turn down opportunities like that: sleep is sleep, and this is a very intense mission. “Thank you.”

Valen nods, and Adele closes her eyes. Their interactions since he left her at that little eatery in Lith My’athar are not exactly cold, but wary and respectful. They both treat each other like professionals, courteous but short: and Adele finds to her surprise that it just increases the efficiency of them working together. It’s almost as if instead of communicating with words, easy to misunderstand and misinterpret, they operate at a deeper level, with glances, gestures, grunts and something else that’s in the ease of movement with which she defends his flank and he covers her back, the gesture of her outstretched arm as she casts a defensive incantation over his head, acknowledged by a small growl and a flick of his tail.

They know where they stand. Adele, however, finds, if she examines her feelings closely now, drifting quickly into one of those catnaps newly minted paladins sent on graveyard patrols in haunted villages learn really fast, that while she certainly _understands_ what Valen meant with his warning that day using the rational and calculating part of her mind, when it all boils down to it, she could easily sum up what she _feels_ this way: _and yet, I don’t care_.

 _The mere fact that here I am, Paladin of Torm, vanquisher of evil and smiter of all manners of creatures of darkness, ceding first watch to a tiefling, horribile dictu, even falling asleep right next to him, should nicely demonstrate the fallacy of that perfectly reasonable theory, General_ …  She feels her lips twist into a little smile as sleep claims her like a sledgehammer of the gods.

She wakes about what seems to be five heartbeats later when one of Deekin’s little claws scrapes along her greaves with a screeching noise that jolts her bolt upright and wide awake.

“I’m up, I’m up… By Torm’s left gauntlet, what is it?” Her voice is rather high and her teeth are aching from the high-pitched noise, but she’s standing, sword in hand, eyes wide open and she swears she’s _not_ hyperventilating at all.

“Peace, paladin, it was merely your wake-up call. According to your kobold,” Valen’s voice is amused as he crosses his arms and watches her lowering her weapon, “we have a rather interesting choice to make.”

“He’s his own kobold.” Adele hates how petulant her voice sounds; but she was never particularly cheerful after waking up. _Especially waking up like that_. She combs five fingers through her hair, and decides to ignore the way Valen is looking at her for now. “And what is that choice?”

“Deekin thinks there be a magical null down there.” The kobold’s voice squeaks from excitement as he points at the cavernous chamber’s middle where a ragged hole marks an opening down to gods knows what depths. “Tablet says ancient ones living here tried to defend themselves from beholders that way.”

“A magical null?” Adele taps her chin in thought. “Meaning their powers don’t work there? Do you think it still operates, after all this time?”

“Can’t know till we try, Boss.” Deekin’s grin is _very_ toothy, Adele realizes suddenly. A lot more than before.   _Now is not the time to ponder whether he’s really turning into a dragon, Adele_ , she reminds herself sternly. “Tablet say old ones retreated down there as last effort to defend against eye tyrants.”

“Gods.” Adele shakes her head. “Can you imagine the scale of operation we’re talking about here? The planning, the logistics, the effort…” She looks around. “I worked with  some crazy researchers before who would have given their arms and legs to excavate here…Master Scalesinger, is there any way you can make a rubbing of that tablet to take with us? I know just the person to give it to if we ever get…”

“Not to put an end to a no doubt very…stimulating discussion, Lady, but perhaps we should concentrate on fulfilling our mission before we start to gather up… _souvenirs_ for old colleagues.” Valen’s voice is part incredulous, part annoyed.  “If there’s indeed some kind of device down there that suppresses magic, we need to be prepared. No doubt whoever devised those defenses didn’t merely rely on that effect alone.” He raises an eyebrow at Adele. “That means we’ll face more conventional foes: traps, beasts…” He shrugs. “Be prepared that none of your divine powers will work.”

Adele bites her lip: she will not point out that yes, she’s figured this out too, and her excitement over the find merely serves as a distraction from saying all that out loud, because really, why belabor the obvious?

She merely nods, therefore, and turns to Deekin, who is way too excited about this most fortuitous find (‘ _boss, how you spell ‘fortuitous’_?), and who is ready indeed to take a piece of charcoal and some paper from his backpack and get to work on the tablet right away. By the time she explains to him that maybe after they return from down there and finish their mission would be a better time to do it, Valen already found a coil of rope in their supplies and is busy lowering it into the chasm.

“As I doubt we could do it with a spell,” he explains, checking the clasps of his vambraces and frowning at one of them. “This one’s frayed; I’ll have to mend it soonest,” he murmurs under his breath and glances around in the cavernous room as if he wants to find his armoring kit and get it done straightaway.

Adele suppresses a smile: _yes_ , _he definitely has his priorities_ , she thinks and makes sure Enserric glides easily in and out of his scabbard.

~ _Are we going to work on more of those squishy beholders_?~ Even her sword is cranky about their current adversaries. _~You know I normally wouldn’t complain, but I must say_ …~

 _Don’t lie to the paladin,_ Adele thinks back at him with mild amusement. _You complain all the time_.

~ _Well, yes, but_ …~ Enserric continues the conversation as the three adventurers descend into the chasm. ~ _If I have to compare, and given that I’m a sentient sword, it is in my nature to discuss such matters…~_

“If you don’t muzzle that thing, I will.” Valen hisses tensely; he hits the ground first, shimmying down the rope with a grace that is distinctly inhuman. Adele bites her lip and decides, yet again, that this whole situation is just a particularly long series of tests from Torm regarding her sense of duty, with a nice dose of suffering from Ilmater mixed in for good measure—and any time now, the third god of the Triad, Tyr, will probably also decide to add something regarding truth and justice. She refrains from rolling her eyes, though, and it fills her with no small amount of pride.

The pride dissipates a soon as she reaches the uneven, rocky bottom of the chasm. The darkness is almost absolute here; she almost reflexively opens her mouth to ask Deekin for a Light spell when she takes a step forward and the feeling that she’s underwater envelopes her as inexorably as the ocean’s tidal waves hitting Tantras’ White Shore.

“I venture that magical null works just fine.” Even her voice sounds duller; and as she glances at her side in an effort to see something, she notices that Enserric’s usual greenish glow is missing. She pulls the blade out halfway, then lets it slide back with an annoyed gesture and she knows that there’s no doubt about it: something is seriously wrong.

“I guess we don’t need to muzzle anything now,” she says drily, glancing towards where she hopes Valen stands.

“Small favors,” she hears the tiefling. He is way too close. “But that’s not what I’m worried about right now, Lady.”

“Oh?” Adele swallows; it is ridiculous that all she needs is complete darkness, a little bit of warmer temperatures, and a lack of magical defenses, and Valen’s low murmur by her ear all of a sudden affects her stomach and heartbeat like that. It’s… _unnatural_.

“Deekin and I are _just_ fine with our natural abilities to see in the darkness,” he says, and Adele feels one of his hands on her arm. “You, Lady, on the other hand…are blind as a bat, as they say in Lith My’athar about your race.”’

“Except bats be not blind.” Deekin chirps up from somewhere to the left. “Bats just be seeing different.”

“Indeed; just like you and I, my dear kobold.” Valen sighs; his warm breath tickles Adele’s hair and she feels every single bone in her body all of a sudden. “I’m afraid we need to root around for something to make into a torch for you, my lady.”

 _What in the Hells is going on here?_   She’s about to open her mouth to say something, when suddenly she feels Valen move (and later she swears that even with full command of her sight she wouldn’t have been able to get out of his way, it was so fast), grabbing her shoulders with one hand, covering her mouth with the other, and pressing her with his full weight against the wall of the chasm. Adele can’t even quite process what’s happening, before her desperately wide-open eyes catch a tiny, tiny reflection slightly up and behind…

“Do. Not. Move.” Valen breathes straight into her ear, and there’s nothing but command in his voice now. She nods almost unconsciously into his palm, and as if he was just waiting for that, he twists away. The air is suddenly full of his battle roar and Devil’s Bane’s hiss. Adele blinks once, twice… there’s a screech, almost too high for her ear to hear, the noise of small rocks under way too many legs...something crunches, dry first, then wet… a curseword, hastily bitten in half…then another screech, this time shorter and dying off in a pitiful mewl.

“My apologies. “ It’s Valen again, breathing just a bit heavily, his gloved hand touching hers briefly. “I didn’t exactly have time to give you a complete tactical assessment there. Sword spiders are too fast.”

“I think I can forgive you, sir.” Adele says, and, despite everything, she finds that she is smiling again. “Given how you most likely just saved my behind.”

“Something like that.” Judging by the tiny noises, Valen is shaking his warflail clear of whatever spider bits got stuck to it. “Business as usual. Now as to this blindness issue of yours…”

Adele is just about to open her mouth to say that really, that was just a _tiny_ but of exaggeration there about the business-as-usual-rescuing-her part, when there’s a slight pop in her ears, a weird rush of air, followed by the sound of a tune hummed suspiciously off-key…and a tiny fleck of pale white light stretches up from the palm of a little kobold standing right next to a still-twitching corpse of the ugliest arachnid Adele has ever seen.

“Hey, this works.” Deekin says, grinning from ear-to-ear. “What do you know, Boss? My songs be working down here. Eat that, magical null thing!”

“Joy.” Valen mutters, shaking his head. “Now I’ll have to put up with his singing all the way to wherever we go.” His breastplate is splattered with some unspeakable ichor from the corpse of the spider that’s still twitches, Adele sees, but his eyes twinkle, and that again does odd things to her stomach, just like his next words. “The things I do for you, Lady.”


	8. Lost

“A what?” Adele isn’t sure she heard Nathyrra right. “The Valsharess is getting ready to crush your city, I’m about to embark on yet another mission to reduce the number of her allies, this time against a bunch of unspecified ‘undead’ your scouts describe so vaguely that even I, a paladin can’t figure out what’s going on… and I’m supposed to go to a… _reception_?”

“You’re _way_ too serious, has no one told you this before?” Nathyrra smiles, with a slight shrug, and Adele can’t help but think, _you’ve no idea_. “Having receptions and parties and suchlike while the world burns is a time-honored drow tradition. The Seer deems it fit to celebrate the birth of House Deani’s new heir: I hear and obey.” She tilts her head to a side. “I suggest you do the same; it would actually help you to learn about the undercurrents of drow politics.”

Adele sighs.

“I suppose this is as good time as any,” she admits. “Let’s see how my informal and often language-challenged conversations in the city manage to hold up in the light of your briefing.” She frowns. “As I suppose that’s what you are actually doing here and not helping me dress, right?”

“Something like that.” Nathyrra is still wearing that amused smile, and Adele tries really hard not to ask her to stop. The drow woman often manages to set her teeth on edge: Adele supposes it’s because in her former life she was her polar opposite: elite assassin, one of the dreaded Red Sisters serving The Valsharess. “But just for my own peace of mind: you _do_ know how to wear a dress, I assume?”

“Low blow.” Adele manages to look haughty; not an easy feat with her hair all wet from her recent bath. “I _am_ a girl. I do wear dresses, on the rare occasion when I am not crawling in tombs, caverns, ruins, forests or deserts to hunt down evil.” She thinks for a second. “Not all that often lately, and definitely this is the first time since I arrived to Waterdeep and then to your charming city, but yes. I even know how to walk in long skirts. Try not to faint.”

“I wonder where they teach that in paladin school.” Nathyrra’s eyes twinkle.

“Well, formalwear should probably fall under armor.” Adele mutters. “Some of those corsets that go with Cormyran fashion…not to mention the shoes…” She regards the dress Nathyrra brought in to her room and grimaces. “This one, though…is missing some parts, isn’t it?”

“Don’t think so.” Nathyrra smoothes down a wrinkle on the silver-and- amethyst colored silk. “We drow just…like to put our… _assets_ on display a bit more prominently than humans. Do you find it not to your liking? The Seer ordered this color combination personally for you.”

“Oh, no, it’s gorgeous.” Adele touches the dress gently. “It just…”

“Don’t worry; the location of the reception is heated adequately. You will not catch a cold.”

“I can’t. Paladins don’t get sick; one of our perks, you might say.” Adele turns to Nathyrra, eyes growing serious. “And now: would you please get to the real purpose of this meeting and tell me what The Seer needs me to do that _she_ can’t or shouldn’t, given the political instability of the city, the precarious standing of Eilistraee’s followers in House Maeviir’s stronghold, and the fact that if we count her, there are three Matron Mothers in Lith My’athar now, but only one of them has a House in the classic sense of the word?”

“You’ve studied us!” Nathyrra claps her hands together in unexpected delight. “By the goddess, you actually _studied_ us.”

“If you thought I’d take up the role of this city’s defender and just bumble about blithely without bothering to understand what’s going on…you really must have had a bad experience with humans… or paladins.” Adele’s eyes narrow. “So let’s do this the right way; I’ll play nice and ask the questions. I’m assuming the fact that Mother Briza’fae Deani gave birth to a girl and thus an heir in exile, alters not only her standing, but the plans of House Maeviir as well?”

“And considerably so.” Nathyrra sits down on Adele’s bed and coils her legs under her gracefully. Adele chooses a chair instead, leaning forward, hands clasped in front of her. “Mother Myrune Maeviir is an extremely vain woman. Lith My’athar was her city entirely, before the Valsharess forced us and the remnants of other Houses into exile. Some of those remnants are still wondering why Mother Myrune extended her welcome to us.”

“I’m sure you have an idea,” Adele says, and suddenly feels a bit tired. She had a rather vicious crash course into large-scale politics during her time in Neverwinter two years before, and doesn’t really relish the idea of getting into it again—even though the Underdark flavor of intrigue is alien enough to be somewhat fascinating on a pure intellectual level. She finds the almost visceral need of the drow to scheme, plot and arrange for others’ demise rather repellent, especially coupled with the ever-growing conviction in her that apart from Eilistraee’s followers, most of them are barely better than the bullies of any big town’s underbelly on the surface. They respect might and strength, think only in terms of dominance and submission, and view everything through the lens of ‘what do I get out of it and how does this make me climb higher’.

When she shares these observations with Nathyrra, the drow woman grins mirthlessly.

“As much as it pains me to admit, Adele,” she says, hugging her knees to her chest, “you’ve perceived the core of our society rather well. Before The Seer’s coming, I have subscribed to the same school of thought myself, and both Mother Briza’fae and Mother Myrune embody the very essence of what it is being a drow.”

“The philosophy of ‘might makes right’ is hardly restricted to your people.” Adele shakes her head. “There are several surface deities whose followers preach the same.”

“Sure, but since you’re here and not there, we shouldn’t be concerned with them.” Nathyrra shrugs. “I am here to give you a briefing on what you can expect tonight at the reception, not to discuss intellectual underpinnings of evil religions, however much that might appeal to you.”

“Too bad.” Adele grins. “I would have enjoyed the mental gymnastics. I didn’t have much chance of it since I spent time with Master Drogan.” Her voice grows wistful at Nathyrra’s questioning eyebrow and she explains. “I was disguised as his pupil during my last assignment while I protected him: we had arguments lasting well into the night and while on occasion I wished to hit him over the head with something blunt, it saved me from going crazy with boredom for quite a while.”

“I wouldn’t think you are bored _here_ , Adele.” Nathyrra opens her eyes wide. “Although if you consider saving us and eliminating The Valsharess’s allies not _stimulating_ enough, maybe you should visit the wing of the temple where the males’ rooms are?”

“Nathyrra, please.” Adele waves a hand wearily. _Not this again_ …. “I thought we’ve discussed this before. While I certainly appreciate your concern for my…health, I assure you, yet again, that there’s no need to worry about me…” she falls silent for a second, searching for the right expression, “… seething unfulfilled in my chambers. I realize that the…mating habits of your people are quite different from mine, but I’d appreciate if you respected my privacy. No need to steer me towards any of those otherwise perfectly healthy young males who no doubt welcome _your_ attentions on a regular basis, no need to send any to wash my back like you’ve tried last week, no need to offer them drinks in my name like you attempted two weeks ago, and…”

“Fine.” Nathyrra pouts. “Be that way.” She coils off gracefully from the bed and waves a hand. “Just make sure you show up at the reception at…” she glances out of the window to where the city’s time-keeper, the row of stalagmites, magically lit by Lith My’athar’s High Wizard stands, “…seven fingers, and try to keep an eye on Mother Myrune.”

“Are you expecting her to actually…try anything against Mother Briza’fae or her little girl right there?” Adele asks incredulously.

“You’re in a drow city, dear.” Nathyrra’s eyes are cold. “The Seer has entrusted me with making sure the delicate balance of Lith My’athar will not tip over for any reasons before we can defeat The Valsharess once and for all.”

“Oh, I see.” Adele nods slowly. “You are her Aarin Gend.”

Nathyrra lifts a delicate pale eyebrow.

“Pardon?”

“Someone from my past.” Adele shakes her head, turns away and picks up the dress. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure no one dies tonight.” Her mouth feels bitter. “I’m very good at following orders, after all.”

“Excellent.” Nathyrra’s voice is deceptively light as she opens the door. “I’ll send someone to escort you. This is to be done properly.”

“Good.” Adele nods as the door closes with a click, and throws two hands in the air. “And I’ve just started to think everything was going so well, Lord.” Her movements are quick, efficient and just a bit angry as she changes her clothes and continues her one-sided conversation with her god, like so often before. “Nothing difficult for tonight, Adele; just be a good paladin and act like you don’t know that you are protecting one monster from another, right?” She yanks on the skirt of the dress as she continues to mutter to herself. “But let’s just review it again. Fact One: Mother Briza’fae hates The Seer with a passion and would strangle her in a spoonful of water… but she needs her to rebuild her house. Fact Two: Mother Myrune tried to murder her own daughter already so she doesn’t even live in their compound any more—but The Seer needs House Maeviir since Lith My’athar is their stronghold.” She frowns at her mirror as she drags a comb through her hair. “Fact Three, just to state the obvious: I’m a surfacer whom she saw in her dreams as someone who can save them, obviously I’m supposed to keep the balance up. Somehow.” She glances upwards. “I sure hope with Your help, Lord. Otherwise I am in deep you-know-what yet again and you do know about how you-know-what left underground long enough stinks.”

When finally there’s a knock on her door, the seventh stalagmite is almost halfway lit.

“Well, that was cutting it tight.” Adele mutters, grabbing her cloak. “Come in,” she says, still turned away from the door, busy with the clasp, and sounding very brisk and official. “I’m assuming Nathyrra sent you to be my escort for tonight. Now I have one rule, and one only for this, and…” Her voice falters as she turns and for a split second she feels a rather stupid grin coming on.

 _Thank you, Lord_.

“I should certainly hope so.” Valen nods, leaning against the doorframe. “I am not much for escort duty normally, but since this is going to be one of _those_ events, I figured the two of us might as well stick together.”

“Best thing about the whole night, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.” Adele says and holds her arms away from her side. “Sorry about the outfit, though. I did tell Nathyrra that there were obviously parts missing, but…” She shrugs and then immediately grabs the dress’ shoulder and yanks on it. “I trust you’ll tell me if anything, um, falls out?”

She honestly doesn’t mean to sound like that: she, in fact, decided that the best way to deal with this… this whole _thing_ is to really treat Valen with the kind of relaxed respect she hasn’t employed with anyone since her days back in Tantras’ Temple.

  _Let’s just go back to ‘sir’ and everything falls into place._

But the way he clears his throat and cast his eyes down to flick some unseen dust off his cuffs yet again make her stomach flutter in a way that is once familiar and terrifyingly new.

“I have your back, my lady. As always,” Valen finally says with a small smile that for some reason looks sad, and before Adele could say anything to that, he lifts a hand. “Before we go, though…did, ah, Nathyrra explain about the…more subtle ways of drow society and customs on occasions like this?”

“She had implied that this was to be done _properly_.” Adele’s mind is racing. “Just so that I’m clear: as I’m a female and independent of any of the Houses, do I need to display some kind of…dominant behavior, or do I get a pass because not only I’m a surfacer, but a human?” She makes a face. “Her efforts to try and set me up with a suitable male in the past weeks intensified significantly, so…” She raises an eyebrow. “Have you encountered the same when you were new here, or did you get a pass on account of…?” She flutters her hands around her head.

“On account of horns and tail?” Valen laughs, a bit relieved. “Not exactly. It’s…complicated.”

“We’re going to the same place, sir.” Adele says, taking his offered arm. “Might as well explain; after all, you have the advantage of being here much longer than I.”

“Oh. That.” Valen rubs his chin. “True, I suppose: in between the running around killing bad creatures and frantically trying to prepare the city for the inevitable bits the discussion on more…decadent aspects of drow society weren’t exactly a priority.”

“Exactly.” Adele nods as they step out to the corridor. “And Nathyrra isn’t quite the helping-chatty girlfriend type.” She shrugs. “And I can’t just walk up to The Seer and ask her about how to be alpha female with her general either.” She grins at the incredulous expression spreading out on Valen’s features. “Or should I?”

There’s a brief silence, just long enough that Adele realizes just what she implied there, and she bites her lip hard, yet again cursing that temper of hers that is exactly the main reason why she ended up the way she did, after all.

“There’s absolutely no way they’ve put up with you at paladin school, or whatever it is you’ve studied,” Valen finally mutters. “Or is that why they gave you that fancy title and sent you to roam the realms and do good _very_ far, far away?”

 “I am not used to someone just seeing through me like that, sir,” Adele says quietly and very much ashamed. “I suspect my last remark was highly inappropriate, and I should apologize.”

“It indeed skirted that territory, yes.” Valen admits, and from his cold and emotionless tone of voice Adele knows right then and there that indeed, she shouldn’t even have jested about it; that Valen indeed had every right to be infuriated; and that the fact that he isn’t leaving her where she stands would be yet another proof of his absolutely incredible willpower. “I… I was saved by her all the possible ways a man can be saved. I’ll never be able to pay it back, even if I die to protect her.”

“How…?” Adele swallows: the air is suddenly stifling.

“I was supposed to kill her.” Valen’s words are sharp. “We were summoned by one of her many enemies. My master was, anyway; his bonded slave company where I was one of the leaders by that time, followed his orders.” He shrugs. “I don’t suppose you know what it means to be a slave, but I will not insult your intelligence by assuming that you’ve never met any. I was the quarter-demon slave of a dread balor, fully conditioned to be a battlemaster, without a true will of my own and submerged entirely in my most base instincts…You’re a paladin. Surely you’ve met minions of some evil lord or another you’ve vanquished such as I was at that time: only a bottomless, black rage to hurt and the mindless, gibbering insanity to taste the pain and suffering of whoever it is against them.”  His words are flat, falling like so many rocks into a black well of sorrow. “Thus I found myself for the first time in the Underdark, and in The Seer’s presence.” Adele can feel how tense his arm is under her hand and she unconsciously smoothes her other palm over it as well, as if their doubled warmth could chase away those memories. “I still remember the first thing she said when she looked at me.” There’s a pause, and as she looks at him sideways, his profile in the scarce light of Lith My’athar’s streets is sharp, and unyielding, and utterly alien. “She said… _’You are not a monster, dear one_.’ I was standing there, ready to murder her, and she…” He shakes his head. “I hesitated. I stopped. I ran. We were banished, me and my company---there were obviously some defenses there that were much better than what our summoner, a Lolth-priestess indicated. I…kept seeing her eyes afterwards, for a long time. There was no anger, no fear there: there was only compassion, and understanding and a light such as I’ve never seen before, or after.”

He turns his eyes at Adele then, and his smile is rueful.

“I wish to be a good man, Adele. That’s when it started, and it took a very, very long time to finally take the first step on that road. Probably longer than you’ve been alive. I’m… older than I look and time’s different on the Planes,” his mouth twitches, “especially when you spend most of the time in mindless blood-rage, or, later, tortured because your consciousness is finally awoken and you question every moment of your existence, unwilling to submit any more. At last, my chance came. I escaped, I found my way here, and I’ve never left The Seer’s side since. She’s my savior and my guide and when I die, I hope she’ll be there to close my eyes and say a prayer for me.”

He stops and turns to Adele.

“Tonight I am escorting you because together you and I can make sure no harm befalls her and her plans that this city will see the light of her goddess remain undisturbed by those who cling to the remnants of their past the way spiders try to suck the last drops of ichor out of a long-dead victim, cocooned beyond recognition.”

His sigh is deep and long, as if he’s trying to expel something foul from his body. His left hand touches Adele’s cheek for a second, and she closes her eyes as one of his fingers feather across her face, tracing the line of her cheekbone.

“And I wanted to say: I am glad that you’re here, my lady.”

The streets are quiet, and they are close to the Lith My’athar Public House, where the houseless Deani matron is holding her celebration. Adele’s thoughts are slightly jumbled, and she’s missing, desperately missing something right now.

 _There should be moonlight_ , she thinks suddenly and she almost giggles when she realizes it. _There should be full moonlight and some kind of soft music, like in those stupid copper-for two-romances Dorna liked to read in Master Drogan’s house._

_Because Torm help me, I am lost._


	9. Something Is Coming

“And then our brave heroine, with radiant smile on her benevo... Boss, how you spell ‘ _benevolent’_?”

“All this time traveling with her and you still haven’t had a chance to practice it? Here, let me help you, Master Scalesinger… see?” Scratching noise on parchment, small whistle.

“Neat lettering you have, Goat-man. Be that a double ‘l’?”

There is a sigh.

“I am _not_ quite sure if we could possibly make any more noise while sneaking up on an entire nest of vampires, gentlemen, but if you think we can, I’ll ask Enserric to contribute to the discussion.”

“Oh. Sorry, Boss.” Deekin’s face: almost, but not quite contrite. “We be discussing penmanship and…”

“And apparently this was the last time I’ve helped your kobold with the fine arts of calligraphy,” Valen mutters darkly, but he bites his lip hard to keep from smiling, as he bows. “Apologies, Lady.”

“Of no matter…” Adele waves a hand. “It’s not that I am the expert on undead here or anything.” She sniffs. “Gods, this place has me on edge; I haven’t had a headache like this since we’ve cleaned up that crypt in the Coldwood.” She glances down at her legs, covered in something dark and sticky from her sabatons up to the knees. “Of course, ‘cleaning up’ is a relative term here…”

“Look at it this way, Lady: at least it’s not beholder ichor.” Valen says encouragingly and Adele shudders.

“Dear _gods_ , thank you for reminding me.” There is such a heartfelt expression of disgust on her face that Valen has to chuckle.

 _Oh, really?_ Adele thinks, one eyebrow going up. _We’re being funny today, is that it? By the Lord’s gauntlet, this starts to become eerily familiar again…_

“I do notice, though, that you are usually in a better mood when you manage to gross me out, sir,” she says, trying to sound arch. “I wonder if there’s a wager involved there somewhere between you and Master Scalesinger, or…?”

“Me? Wagering with your kobold, Lady?” Valen opens his eyes wide. “I am offended that you even think me capable of such things.” He turns away to measure up the room they just cleaned up for a hasty rest stop in the sinister temple’s lower crypts, and murmurs, barely audibly, eyes half-shut. “The wager was with Nathyrra, of course.”

Adele can’t help but grin as she rearranges a half-smashed chair to be able to sit down a bit. The only way to deal with the increasingly more and more oppressive environment is, she knows this from experience, to engage in truly bizarre jesting. Earlier during her career she frowned at older brothers at the Temple when they recounted their field experiences, reassuring herself over and over again that she would _never_ stoop down to base jokes while engaging in the cleansing acts of the god. After puking her guts out on her first undead assignment when two zombies disintegrated on top of her, however, she quickly learned the wisdom of this almost-custom as Brother Veneficius, her knight-instructor at that time helped her up and asked in a deceptively courteous voice: “ _I trust now you understand the importance of closing your mouth and withholding your breath after the incantation for destroying undead, sister?”_

“Good memories?” Valen inquires quietly, settling down next to her. They both root through their pack for some cleaning rags and set out to fix some truly reprehensible spots on arms and armor while Deekin uses wood splinters from several chests and tables to set a little fire and boils a little pot of water.

“Merely reminders of just how horribly I behaved on my first few field assignments.” Adele removes her helmet with a sigh and puts it on the table next to her gauntlets. The liner sticks to her forehead: she pulls it back with a disgusted expression that fades to mild annoyance fast. “It seems like a lifetime ago. My nickname was ‘Know-All’ in school; even my family used it after a while instead of Dellie.” She looks at Valen quickly and catches the incredulous expression on his face. “I ought to warn you, sir, though…”

“Far be from me to betray the trust of a lady’s secrets.” Valen lifts a gloved hand. “I shall forget I’ve ever heard that…” He tilts his head to the side and regards her very carefully. “ _Dellie_?”

“If you _ever_ tell Deekin, I kill you.” Adele leans closer and whispers sweetly. “Slowly, and letting Enserric provide commentary. _In rhyming couplets_.”

“Not. A. Word.” Valen nods seriously, reaching for the next rag, and passing it to her along with the little pot of armor polish. “So: you were one of those who sat in the first row in school, always had their hands up first? That kind of thing?”

“Worse.” Adele glances at Deekin who’s humming contentedly, busy chopping up an old chest partially for the fire, partially to form long stakes. “A lot of times I had my hand up _before_ the teacher finished the question.” She grins. “Imagine every single stereotype of the eager prodigy rolled into one: quick wit, hungry intellect and keen theological sense, brilliant reasoning  ability, excellent research skills, first in class combat abilities, coupled with a sense of infallibility, a smattering of whispers about ‘significant destiny’, and a really highly bouncy ponytail.” She pats a spot a half an inch from the top of her head. “About ye high, and long until my knighting ceremony. That’s when it’s cut short; some let it grow back a bit, but I never did.” Her face clouds for a moment and she shakes her head angrily and with finality. “And probably never will.”

Valen casts a quick glance at her, but remains silent; and Adele is grateful.

It is, perhaps, that silence that makes her feel comfortable enough to continue.

“Terribly unpractical, ponytails. Apparently they also can lead you to sin.” She grimaces. “At least it was one of the theories His Holiness the Primarch set forth when I was…disciplined. Did I ever tell you I was disciplined at the end of my novitiate?” She smears a glob of polish on her gauntlet and attacks it, almost angrily with the rag.  She isn’t sure what compels her to speak about this right here, right now; but it bubbles up suddenly and almost unstoppable. Maybe it’s the fact that  she’s having a splitting headache due to the proximity of powerful undead creatures; after all, they just recently dispatched several vampires, and who knows how many of them still lurk in the depths of the crypts beyond? Maybe it’s the memory of the sunken-eyed dwellers of Drearing’s Deep, the little collection of hovels beyond this temple’s gates, with its inhabitants calling themselves ‘free’ while living in daily terror of the gong that takes them away one by one to be killed, under the pretext of ‘protection has its price’? Maybe it’s the fact that she can fall into strangely familiar routines with this outsider, soldier and survivor of terrible wars, and that she feels, when it all boils down to it, as safe with him as she’s not felt in a long time? Or maybe it’s all of those rolled into one, slowly pressed forward by the inevitability of _something_ coming, the underlying knowledge of her mission here in the Underdark rushing towards some kind of conclusion, that keeps her dreams disturbed more and more as the days rush by?

“I was first in class, with a future as bright as you can imagine…I was doing semi-official squiring to the Primarch himself already, and people clearly expected great things of me.” She wipes at her forehead and wishes that the pounding would lessen somewhat. “It was just… so very _stupid_. Something clearly got into my head, but I was eighteen and thought I could do absolutely no wrong.” She casts a sidelong glance at Valen. “Contrary to popular myths you’re probably not familiar with but which are common fare of jokes in taverns all around Faerun, paladins are _not_ celibate, not even as novices—relationships between instructors and students are, however, frowned upon. Mildly speaking, that is. Bluntly put, I was discovered carrying out an illicit affair with my arms instructor. We both were cited in front of the Primarch: I think he yelled at us for an hour straight—on separate occasions, of course.  He—his name was Cornelyan-- was asked to resign his commission and was sent to a border fortress to support the efforts against the Zhentarim on the Dalelands. I was… offered to graduate early and fast, to receive the mantle of Special Errant Envoy Plenipotentiary due to my exemplary conduct that far and in recognition of certain family sacrifices. The very next day of my graduation I was sent to Neverwinter to aid that city on my first solo mission to battle evil and hopefully mend my errant ways regarding inappropriate conduct with handsome knights in shining armor, easy smiles and a penchant for admiring pony-tailed novices a bit too closely.” 

Adele grabs her helmet now and looks at Valen almost belligerently, chin lifted. 

“Have you ever been in love?” she asks fiercely. “That odd feeling of ‘I can take on the world and I don’t care’ type of love…the one when you think you know better than everyone else, that you can do anything and everything and to the Hells with what they think?” She shrugs. “That’s the kind of love we had… I had, anyway. Very young, very stupid, very selfish…  but very bright and blazing and consuming. I wanted to prove that I could do what I was tasked with, despite the whispers, the laughters, the fact that half of Tantras gossiped about me and him and the scandal, however much the Primarch’s secretaries worked on clearing it up.” She makes a face. “And then, of course, when you spend some time away from the person you thought was your everything, and you see and understand a bit more about how the world works outside the confines of your little realm you’ve lived so far, and you really start to take on real responsibilities and worry about decisions that impact people’s lives daily, you start to forget about that big all-consuming love—after all, you fight every day for your very life, uncover secrets, do missions that would raise the hair on the arms of even more experienced knights of your order… One day, then, you think back of your so-called love and you maybe send a letter or a messenger…or maybe you meet an old friend and hear back about your love…” The helmet clanks loudly on the table as she puts it back. “He got married to the castellan’s daughter a couple of months after he arrived to that castle; by now he has three kids and is a veritable pillar of the community. Of course the Primarch was right, and of course I am glad that Cornelyan is happy and content and serves Torm the right way, but… that little ache, you know? The one you still feel, back behind your breastbone like an old wound, that just flares up every time you see something just from the corner of your eye, a gesture, a smile, a color, a voice, that reminds you of them…of that stupid, selfish, terribly bright and beautiful first love that formed you, that shaped you, that molded you to be the person you became later?” She touches her breastplate just above her heart. “That is still there. Do you have that?”

“Yes. I had.” Valen puts down his own vambrace and leans on his elbow. His face is strangely vulnerable now and looks young; Deekin’s fire casts shadows under his cheekbones and paints bright highlights in his red hair. “Once, a long time ago.” He looks up. “She died.” One finger traces strange patterns on the rough wood of the table; Adele’s eyes follow its movement as if hypnotized. “She was a servant of my master and she was kind to me. She was a mortal slave, not a planewalker, or lesser demon; I remember her singing often when she was cleaning. She was not treated kindly, not treated well: she was a plaything of the soldiers, a prize after well-done campaigns, like a nice weapon or piece of armor, or a wineskin to pass around and bide the time with. But she always smiled at me, and tied green ribbons in her hair.” He swallows. “After I saw the Seer and failed my mission… I was being tortured after that, and Grimash’t, my master brought her before me, and…made her part of my torture, which had been going on for quite a long time by then. He meant to break me with that, and he did quite a good job.  He killed her after a while, of course,” he adds, as if that explains it, and Adele feels her heart make a strange, slow ‘thud’ at that. “It was meant to cause me pain; and it did. So yes:  I know what you mean by that little pain, right here.” He taps his own chestplate, exactly the same place as she did before. “It’s an old wound, and the only one of its kind I carry.”

“I am so sorry.” Adele whispers; her limbs are cold. “What was her name?”

“You see… that’s just the thing.” Valen shakes his head slowly. “I never knew her name. Or maybe I did and I forgot. I was tortured for a very long time…months, perhaps…and that kind of pain does strange things to memory.” He looks up, and there’s a small smile on his face. “But I will never forget those green ribbons in her hair, and the way she always smelled of cinnamon.”

Firewood snaps; Deekin sneaks by, putting a couple of stakes next to them and sliding two tiny cups of hot, steaming liquid on the lopsided table, and Adele looks around as if waking from a dream.

“You’ve made… tea?” Adele asks surprised, accepting the drink with a grateful smile. “Thank you. That is…very good of you, Master Scalesinger.”

“Deekin thought Boss needed something for headache,” the little kobold says quietly. “And for something else, maybe. Deekin had tin with herbs in his pack.”

“The day you will not have something in your pack will be the end of the world.” Adele murmurs, folding her hands around the little tin cup.

“Bag of Holding, hm?” Valen inhales the aroma of the tea deeply and looks at the two of them. “Not very common on this plane, I take it?”

“The real ones are rare.” Adele nods: she is immensely grateful for Deekin breaking the mood the way he did, and feels an overwhelming surge of affection towards her longtime companion, who understands so much more of the ways of the world on his own odd way than he ever lets on. “Fakes you can spot at almost every larger city that caters to adventurers. But the real deal: not sure where Deekin found that one, but it pulled us out from a lot of trouble in more than one tight spot.” She pats the stakes on the table. “And look: he made these, too.”

“Those monks in the last chamber apparently made a lasting impression on your companion.” Valen stops and looks at Adele again; the raw pain of that memory in his eyes faded somewhat, and in their blue depths there’s something else now. “Please forgive me for bringing this up again, but… I am _still_ trying really hard to imagine you with a…” he swishes his own hair behind his head, “ _bouncy ponytail_?”

“’Ye high’.” Adele says, just about the same time he does, and they are only partially surprised when a little laugh bubbles up from both of their throats.

“All right,” she continues after she tastes her tea again, gratefully registering how it indeed soothes her headache away rather nicely, “It’s probably crystal clear to you by now: I was a thoroughly insufferable best-in-class and I clearly wanted to prove something. I suppose everything goes back to the time when my brother …” She bites her lip and falls silent for a second.

Valen does not press. He just resumes cleaning his vambrace, lying in front of him on the table and sips on his tea once more before Adele speaks up again.

“He was seventeen when the god came to Tantras.” Her voice is very quiet. “That term I mentioned to you earlier: The Martyr’s Progeny… it refers to all Tormtar in Tantras who were offered but not dedicated yet and were under the age of fourteen when the Time of Troubles came and the gods walked on Toril. You heard about it, yes?”

Valen nods, but he doesn’t elaborate, or even says a word; his eyes don’t leave Adele’s face, and she’s immensely grateful for the silence as she continues.

“That makes it less…I don’t know, academic, then. The gods’ avatars fought to decide ages-old conflicts and new animosities alike… In my city, Tantras, Torm’s avatar battled Bane, god of fear, hatred and tyranny. Torm was weakened at that time, while Bane received a significant surge of power from various sacrifices, so…our Lord needed power to vanquish his foe. The High Primarch and the Chief Tormtars made a difficult decision, and in the full accordance of their faithful they…offered themselves to the god.”

“ _Offered_ themselves? Do you mean as… _sacrifices_?” Valen asks, slightly rocking back on his seat.

“They gave their life’s power so that Torm could be victorious over the greatest evil walking its streets.” Adele nods. “In His mercy, He decided that he wouldn’t take the youngest, though—even though it might have meant he wouldn’t win. I was thirteen. Everyone already called to serve at the temple but under the age of fourteen was spared and spirited away to underground caverns until the battle was over; the plan called for hasty evacuation via secret tunnels to the sea. We would have been the only ones keeping the legacy and the memory of our city alive: because if Torm failed, if the sacrifice of all our brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers in faith failed, there was no Tantras to return to—Bane would have obliterated the entire city.”

Her voice fails for a second: when she continues, there’s a strange little lilt to it, as if something broke in her chest again after a long time.

“My… my brother was nineteen; he was the eldest in the family then, and a full-blown cleric of our god. He… he stood on the high square with the others as we were led away. They stood in straight rows, the young, the old, the men and the women, clerics, paladins, monks and acolytes, clad in all-white under the banners of the open palm. There was no singing, no hymns, and no solemn music like they so often say in ballads and heroic songs about that time: just the rolling clouds, the wind, the smell of the sea air and smoke, the noise of the battle drawing ever closer across the city, and the cries of the seagulls from the bay.  We lost the sight of their white faces and gleaming eyes as we descended to the caverns: the roar of the ocean drowned out their screaming after a while.” Her voice is merely a whisper. “Most of us had a dream after: the god told us they didn’t suffer.”

“I’m sorry.” Valen’s voice is warm, as is his hand on hers on the table. His calloused fingers curl around hers almost, but not quite, gently, as if they were unfamiliar with such acts. “I am… unused to expressing sympathy, but… that tale is unlike anything else I’ve encountered in my life. Sacrifices such as that…” He is looking away, trying to find the words for a second. “Tell me, though: why would a god, a benevolent one such as Torm you so devotedly serve, demand something like that?”

“You understand war.” Adele looks into his eyes, hand clutching his tightly still, as if with that she could impart more understanding. “You’ve been a soldier in a war that spanned planes for millennia for causes long forgotten and perhaps best not to be remembered. But this is Toril, and I am human—our gods embody the very ideas we’re born with. Should Torm, god of duty, loyalty, righteousness and compassion have been vanquished, Bane, god of fear, tyranny and hatred would have consumed all that was of Tantras: cleric, paladin, merchant, sailor, soldier, men, women, children, babes. You understand war: but do you understand fighting for something that is threatened to be eradicated so utterly that eventually it would become its very opposite? The necessity of a sacrifice from many, fueled by their love of something they hold so dear they are willing to give their very essence so there _can_ be a future?”

“Are you asking me if I would be taking sides in such war?” There’s an undercurrent of growl in Valen’s voice now, and his tail lashes out wildly about him. His eyes narrow in warning. “Are you asking me whether I would have sided with Bane or Torm?”

 “No. I don’t have to ask that, Valen.” Adele’s voice is firm again, her head high, and the certainty in her heart is like a slowly kindling fire. “I see you every day in Lith My’athar; I see you at my side when we’re out here fighting. I see you battling your demon every day; I see you wanting to be rid of it and become who you truly want to be. You chose _already_ : I don’t need to bother you with intellectual exercises or ‘what-ifs’. I would be unworthy to be called a paladin not to recognize who you truly are by now: but I had to tell _my_ story so you understand where _I am_ coming from.” There are echoes of something deeper in her voice; Valen blinks as he sees a faint glimmer of light about her head that shines from somewhere beyond. “This is who I am. A paladin of Torm, the Loyal Fury: Martyr’s Progeny, who witnessed gods do battle and take the lives of her loved ones as a child; one who was spared by love first, tried by it second and finally let free so she can go and live and serve by example.”

There’s that silence between them again, punctuated by Deekin’s slight humming as he pokes at the fire in the corner: a silence of open wide places, of possibilities converging with the slow but inevitable speed of a tidal wave.

 _Something is coming_ , Adele realizes, as she hears the pounding of blood in her ears, the way she only ever heard the ocean during high tide in Tantras. _Something is coming_ … and it has the potential to change entire worlds.

 _Soon_ , she hears the whisper in her ears, coming from beyond the spheres of her own plane. _Soon,_ she hears her god’s voice, and the air is filled with the glistening of steel, the smell of freshly fallen snow, and bone-numbing cold. _Keep the warmth around you so that you stay true._

_Keep your faith around you so that you stay steadfast._

And, at last, before time returns, and she stares into Valen’s concerned eyes again, she hears Torm’s last warning.

_Keep him around you so that both of you remain._


	10. Mine

_10._

_sound of stone on stone_

_dripping: blood on bone_

_reek of graves, scent of night_

_dead-white, taken up in flight_

Afterwards, she isn’t entirely sure how it all ended. She has scattered, almost-static images in her head about that part of the mission: the way like to this day she can’t tell how exactly that last confrontation with Queen Morag of the Creator Race went, or how she escaped through that exploding portal Master Drogan kept open for her and Deekin.

It all goes sideways as soon as she sees the prone form lying on that bloodstained altar, shackled with rune-studded chains, her skin almost translucent from blood loss and losing its faint golden hue way too fast. It goes sideways because the anger that possesses her at the moment she realizes that the cultists here gained power by draining the blood and life of a celestial, an astral deva of the higher planes suddenly is too great to be contained, and both Deekin and Valen have to step back as she screams in her righteous wrath and strikes at those shackles with Enserric so that sparkles fly everywhere and the air fills with acrid smoke.

The chains don’t shatter, of course: the foul magic is too strong. They find the key that powers the strange mechanism locking up the entire contraption in another room, and Adele shakes in her entire body as she steps across the shattered remains of unclean monsters built on reeking bone and smeared with blood runes to cradle the golden head of the fragile angelic form to her chest and wash her face with some water from her canteen.

… _It’s all scattered and sideways, little images frozen it time, like a bizarre chain of timestop spells keeping a slowly unraveling mind together…_

Lavoera is her name, as they learn once she’s come to, and she is, probably due to the constant torture and blood loss, not quite exactly _there_.  She regains her powers with astonishing speed and exudes a constant faint aura around her, from the tips of her golden wings to her sandaled toes. She also insists on going with them to vanquish the leaders of the cult before she joins their army in Lith My’athar: she mutters something about a quest she was on that she can’t quite recall but which might have been exactly _this_ , and _surely a paladin of the divine Torm wouldn’t throw away her help when there’s so much at stake_?

Valen is tense in the deva’s presence, constant lines of irritation between his eyebrows, and his lashing tail speaks volumes about how the presence of a divine messenger affects his abyssal blood. But he doesn’t object to the deva coming with them: Adele knows that he also recognized that the strength in that fragile-looking body is way beyond what either of them possesses and that in the upcoming battle with the unknown leader of the vampiric bone-cult they need every ounce of advantage they have.

And then the high priest of the cult, Sodalis, is finally nothing more but a heap of crumbling bones, and Adele is standing there with her sword at her side, still hearing the vampire’s hissing chant to his supposed god awaiting them beyond the door stretching up ahead of them..

_“_ Boss thinks we killed him this time for good?” Deekin inquires and Adele just nods wearily as she circles the remains, watching Lavoera kicking them apart with disgust bordering on glee.

“I want your kobold to scout ahead there,”Valen says tensely all of a sudden, nodding his chin sharply at the two-winged great door, and Adele notices for the first time that rims of red are slowly appearing around the deep blue of his irises.  She is used to little specks of crimson peppering his gaze in the depth of battle by now, but this is new, and different, and while not exactly frightening, it’s unusual enough to warrant follow-up.

“Are you all right?” she asks quickly, and she expects him to say something to the effect of ‘of course’, like he always does, dismissing even the notion of not being perfectly fine… and it hits her all the more, then, when he shakes his head with a small, almost violent motion.

“We need to get this over quickly.” He growls the worlds over his shoulder at her as he prowls across the hall to stand by her side, tail lashing. “I am…reacting too strongly.” Even his sentences become shorter, terse and clipped. “Not sure: might be your and _her_ aura together…” he nods towards where Lavoera is examining the runes on the gate, “…or whatever this…Vix’thra is.” He inhales deeply. “Or all of it together. Too much.”

“Reacting?” Adele furrows her brow. “You mean…?”

“Get. Your. Kobold. In. There.” Valen measures between his teeth, nostrils flaring, irises for a second flashing into almost pure red. “ _Now_.” He spins around and almost flees to the other side of the hallway, turns his back on her and stands there, leaning on Devil’s Bane with hunched shoulders that scream of a desire to do horrible violence, barely restrained.

Looking back at it, Adele is almost certain if she had waited just a bit more, she would have been able to think about it logically and would have put all of it together: the constant pressure of the undead’ s presence, the barrage of raw magical attacks they just suffered from Sodalis,  Lavoera’s heavenly luminescence and almost unbearable level of power that got stronger with every passing minute she spent recovering from her long captivity, the strange dread seeping from underneath the last gate in front of them… And yes, no doubt she would have noticed that small trickle of blood slowly seeping from under the left side of Valen’s breastplate. But there was no time…and in that strange frozen almost-timestopped image Adele sees it all…

_sound of stone on stone_

Deekin goes in first; cloaked with the effects of one of his Invisibility potions, the little kobold slips in through the barely open side door that he opens with a tiny key found amongst the crumbled remains of the finally dead high priest… Adele bites her lip and Lavoera taps a rhythm with her mace in her palm as they wait. Valen is as far from them as possible, face almost deadly pale, cheekbones jutting out; his breathing is labored.

_dripping: blood on bone_

_…_ Tiny claws scratching her feet, no sound or sight…Adele crouches down, and into her ears comes the frantic whisper from Deekin like so many pebbles thrown into a well…

“There be a bone dragon there, Boss…smells like power and old dead things. Bad, bad thing…if this be Vix’thra it be a dracolich, and we must destroy its phylactery, else we die. It’s in a little room to the side but it’s guarded: bone golems.  Boss wants Deekin go and…?”

“No.” Valen’s voice, right there, almost a snarl. His grip on her shoulder is like a steel vice: Adele winces. “This is what we do; exactly like this. Adele gets invisible, goes to the side room, destroys the golems and the phylactery. Lavoera and I distract the dracolich. Deekin provides spellcover.” He closes his eyes briefly, and swallows. “Need to do it soon.”

Adele knows that look, recognizes it with a sickening pitch of her stomach, and the air hisses from her lungs as she turns.

“You are wounded.” Her gloved hand comes away from Valen’s side red and sticky and she stares at her palm in disbelief. “You didn’t say anything…”

“No. Time.” His lips peel off his teeth with a feral sound that makes her to take a step back and the deva to lift her mace. “Too much… at… once. My…control is fading.” He grits his teeth. “I need to channel…it. I need to…kill. I need to…”

She understands it with a speed that, ironically, makes everything else way too slow. She grabs a potion from her hip-pack she already had out just in case.

“Understand.” She measures the word carefully, nods to Lavoera who already looks at Valen as if _he_ would be the enemy and not the source of the dreadful cold now seeping out from under the gates…”Mission is a go as described.”

_Take care of him for me, deva…or at least make sure you two don’t kill each other instead of the real monster…_

 …the vial’s content glides down her throat with strange spices, she grabs another one for strength, another for mental fortitude and yet another one, rare and treasured, to protect from deadly magics of evil, her lips press together into one single line as she spins around and fades out of view…

_reek of graves, scent of night_

…and it is cold, cold, cold in there, everything smells of old blood and half-rotten marrow, piles of huge white things in the corners of the— _cavern_?, and high up like two hell-spawned rubies, the eyes of the dracolich feasting on something that makes little crunching sounds as the huge claws tear bone like parchment.

Her heart beats so loud that she’s sure the monster, the perverted god of undead cultists that feeds on the remains of vampire victims the rest of the priests and monks discarded might hear…but she slips past him, hunching over herself so no accidental clang of armor betrays her movements. It’s dark, but there’s a glow coming from the back of the cave that she follows carefully and slowly, and when she finally reaches a smaller, roughly hewn room that is literally crammed full of moldy bags and chests that are falling apart from age and spilling their content on the floor. _Of course_ , it runs through Adele’s mind, _of course, dragons have treasures, why should a dracolich be different_?… _Or maybe this is un-treasure_ , the irrational part of her thoughts supplies, and she has to stifle a giggle. _Un-dead has un-treasure, and all of this stuff will just simply go up in smoke and disappear, or suck the life out of me, or something equally bizarre, so let’s just do the same thing like in Halaster’s abominable dungeon and not touch anything_.

_I am getting tired_ , she thinks, finally spotting a little pedestal in the corner with a slowly revolving cocoon of sickly green light on it, cradling a slender vial. _I am getting tired, and this place is horrible and vile, and I am sick from worry for Valen, and my mind is going places it normally would never go_. She recognizes the symptoms of battle fatigue, and bites her lips as she quietly vows that when all of this is done and she finally manages to discharge her responsibility and help the Valsharess breathe her last, she will return to Waterdeep and rent the best suite of Master Durnan’s inn, the one with the four-poster bed and separate bathing chamber with a huge circular tub,  and she will stay there eating roast chicken and grapes _for an entire week_ , before she goes back home to Tantras and helps her nieces and nephews with their homework and her sister-in-law and mother with cleaning.

_Or something_. Anything other than crawling in the Underdark and avoiding traps and monsters and making sure undead dragon leaders of vampire cults have no undead armies left to aid evil sorceress drow queens to eliminate an entire city. _Hells, how about playing tourist and showing Valen around Waterdeep—if we are into truly bizarre fantasies brought on by mental exhaustion by constant danger, that one ought to be ranking right up there with playing cards with Elminster. They could go and gawk around the markets, visit the Castle Ward and marvel at the changing of the guards at the Open Lord’s Palace, have some of those little shell-shaped pastries and drink coffee from bone-thin Shouware cups at that horribly expensive place just on the corner from The Spires of the Morning, Lathander’s cathedral_ … J _ust two soldiers on leave, nothing to see here, ignore the horns of one and the holy aura of the other…_

_And I’ll do it too, dear Lord, I’ll do it, and feed him from my own hand with those grapes, just let us get out of here in one piece and unharmed, and with his soul intact…_

She gropes around in her belt with her left for the prepared little bottle of Speed potion, yanks the cork out with her teeth and pours the liquid down her throat. Her time slows down into sticky molasses when the god’s battle time invades her mind to get this done very, _very_ fast.

Enserric remains blessedly silent, simply sending thoughts of grim determination into her mind as she draws him out of the scabbard. The sentient sword hates undead magic-users with a passion that borders on obsession, and given that he was in the possession of one such for quite a long time, Adele can understand; more so since she knows the soul imprisoned in the living steel used to be a powerful wizard-adventurer himself. She brings the blade around in a shining arc, aimed at the glowing vial on the pedestal, and the satisfying crunch of glass brings a short, grim smile on her lips…

…until heaps of bone suddenly animate from around corners of the room with glowing runes on skull and ulna, and she hears the enraged roar of a very, very thoroughly furious dracolich from behind her.

_Not fair,_ she thinks, biting her lips again as she spins out of the way of the first bone golem aiming a giant fist at her, _not fair, of course he had a warning system built in, it’s part of the hoard, and dragons always guard their hoard_ …

_dead-white taken up in flight_

… _all is disjointed, all is hanging in the air, like a tiny insect enclosed in amber from the Frozen North’s shores. Of course everything went sideways…_

Lavoera’s battle cry is clear like the call of eagles over snow-capped mountains. The air is filled with blue-white light about her as she leaps up, beating her great wings and brings her mace down on Vix’thra’s shoulder. Adele feels her head clear just a little bit from the celestial sound, enough to murmur an invocation of her own as she rolls away from the second golem and sweeps the legs from underneath the first using Enserric. She sees the force of the divine energies unleashed wreathe the other monster in a crackling web on destruction, as small fractures appear on the bones…

…another roar cleaves the air, and this one has almost no sentience in it, nothing but mindless rage and the desire to rend and hurt and tear. Adele spins and the hair on the nape of her neck stands up from that sound, so utterly alien and different and yet with a terrible familiarity that fills her with ice-cold dread…

…and she sees the great head of Vix’thra, dracolich and self-appointed god of Drearing Deep pushing into the small room. The ceiling shakes, dust clouds the air as a huge paw, each claw as long as Enserric, reaches towards her, and the dragon’s maws open with a hiss that heralds something distinctly unpleasant that Adele _really_ doesn’t want to wait for…

…so she moves, fast, lightning fast in the potion’s overcharged time, unleashing her own battle cry to the Lord of Duty. Enserric cleaves the air, clear amethyst light on his edge…

…and there’s that roar again, that mindless, ululating sound of frenzy, and something large and fast and clad in green appears by Vix’thra’s side, vaulting up on the dracolich’s back in one smooth motion…

… _dear Lord, he’s riding the dragon_ , Adele thinks as her time slows down even more and her mouth is almost hanging open as she ends up rolling behind a large chest full of half-spilled gold and tiny diamonds. She watches Valen squeezing around the dracolich’s neck with his thighs and planting Devil’s Bane’s head amongst the last vertebrae with such a force that the weapon is stuck. Valen bellows again, the sound reverberating under the cavernous room’s canopied ceiling, and with eyes fully flashing red and his hair wild about his face, he drops Devil’s Bane’s handle and with gloved hands grabs under Vix’thra’s skullplates and _rips_ upwards…

….Adele, from the corner of her eye, sees a flash of red as Deekin sends a bolt of pure flame towards the dracolich’s underbelly, feels her limbs suffuse with new strength from the little bard’s powerful song, hears Lavoera’s triumphant cry as she brings her mace down on their opponent’s back leg… but what she really sees is Valen’s face, savage and snarling, and the bulging of the sinews in his neck as _by Torm’s left gauntlet,_ _he_ _tears half of the back of Vix’thra’s skull off with his bare hands_ , lifts the huge piece of bone and roars again, with the unadulterated, finally-unleashed ecstasy of doing what he does best. He twists with unearthly grace and jumps on his feet, standing upright as the great dragon bucks in agony, adding its own cries to the cacophony of sounds in the cavern. Valen slams the piece of bone down on Vix’thra’s skull, again and again, and again, and each time that awful roar goes up Adele swears she sees a huge dark shadow coalescing around him, pulsing and growing with every roar and every strike, something oily and roiling and having many colors that hurt the eye: bile green, sticky yellow-brown and the putrid violet of rotting meat.

Chaos.

_Demontaint_.

Vix’thra bellows, his huge body thrashing around in the final throes of its existence, maws gaping and spewing acrid fire in uneven, random spurts. Lavoera jumps aside gracefully, grabbing Deekin’s arm and hauling him away from a ray of acid, mace still lifted in one hand. As Vix’thra rears up, exposing his chest, Adele sees a darkly pulsing soft spot on the enormous breastbone, and feels, yet again like many times, her training taking over: her legs push her body into sprint, running faster and faster towards the dying dragon, Enserric extended in her hand. In the last second, she is sliding, one knee bent, and the other extended in front, leaning forward and calling up her last Smite invocation against evil, as she slams into that wall of bone and magic and undead will and buries her blade in that vulnerable spot on the dracolich’s body.

She’s not sure how she manages to avoid those last gushing torrents of uncontrolled acid and raw magic energy erupting from Vix’thra’s body, but she does come away unscathed, except from a long, smoking scorch on her left shoulder when she did a full forward roll to escape a gigantic tail’s final twitch. She comes up, Enserric still in hand, panting from the exertion and the effort to leave the god’s battle-time, her heart uplifted in that strange state she always falls in when vanquishing a particularly dark foe in Torm’s name…

…when she hears her name called in a slightly panicky, querulous female voice first she doesn’t even recognize.

“Adele!” Lavoera sounds absolutely unlike herself: high-pitched and almost panicky. “Adele! Do something! He…”

…and the snarl of something big, furious and absolutely without reason, like an enraged lion or tiger, maddened by the scent of blood and battle, raging to continue the killing for the pure, sheer joy of it…

“Boss!” Deekin’s face, peering from behind the deva’s legs, as she backs to a corner, lifting her mace. “Boss, Goat-Man be mad!”

_No, not mad_ , Adele thinks as she slowly circles around, and recalling the lecture from the old demon-hunter back in Tantras. _This is something very similar, and yet very different… and may Torm give me His strength to face it._

 She almost falters when she sees his face this close. What clearly was terrifying from a distance is magnified two, three, four times: the swirling red of his irises rimmed with black, the pale lips drawn up from the suddenly sharp teeth, the deep, almost coughing growl emanating from his chest, the hunched shoulders, fingers twisted into claws, tail lashing about wildly…

… _And I am out of absolutely everything that could knock him out_ … Adele bites her lips. _Suppose I can use Enserric’s pommel, provided Lavoera and Deekin can distract him long enough…_

She gets about that far when one of her sabatons slips on a puddle of dragon acid on the floor.

Deekin and Lavoera cries out about the same time as Valen whirls around, hearing the clang of her armor as she falls on her knee, having lost her balance…

…The last thing she sees before her head is slammed against the stone floor by two iron-clad arms and she loses consciousness, is the snarling face of Valen Shadowbreath, with that oily, roiling cloud of taint enclosing him, and the last thing she hears is his deep growl as his teeth descends on her throat.

“Mine!”

 


	11. Passages

11.

 

**A/N: Yes, the last two chapters and this cover a series of events fairly close to each other, forming a kind of a ‘triptych’. It’s fully intentional, as in my story here is the crux of the relationship between Adele and Valen.**

**As always, many thanks to my readers who keep reviewing and favoriting, despite this not being a usual romance plot. Good things take time…**

When she comes to, she’s swaddled in blankets, there’s a little fire not far from her, and a hushed but very tense whispered conversation is going on by her ear.

“We need to move them both as soon as possible. My healing powers can only do so much, I’m still not fully recovered and I’m not sure if it’s even possible from me in this environment, there’s still so much lingering death magic. Is your city far from here?”

“Not my city, Heaven-lady. But yes, is far. Boss has a way to move fast though…just doesn’t like using it.”

_If that’s not Torm’s honest truth_ , Adele thinks as she blinks once, twice, and tries to move her head.

“Ouch.” It comes out really more pitiful than she intends to, but really, heads generally are _not_ supposed to feel like there are razorwires attached to her eyeballs and they are sawing the insides of her brain. And what is it with her throat?

Her hand comes up and touches a hastily applied bandage just under her chin… and suddenly she remembers.

_Her head hitting the cold stone of the cavern; sharp white teeth descending towards her exposed throat; something large and snarling and_ …

_Valen_.

She squelches the rise of pure black panic in the wake of that thought and takes a deep breath. _No. Not now. There’s no time for that._

_Focus on the mission._

_Always focus on the mission._

She exhales loudly and turns her head to the side.

“Lavoera?” she calls out, and her voice is stronger this time. “Situation?”

“You’re awake!” Two faces appear in her field of vision: both are visibly relieved. Deekin’s grin is exceptionally toothy ( _did he grow more teeth again_?), and the deva’s statue-perfect lips are curved into a tremulous smile. “I wasn’t sure how long the healing spell would knock you out, its duration and really, side effects can vary with the species, moral alignment and sometimes even weight of the subject, and…”

“Never you mind that.” Adele says curtly and manages to maneuver herself up into sitting: the blankets around her are tucked in Deekin’s unmistakable ‘we’re making a sleeping nest’ style that is almost impossible to unfold. “Tell me what you got.”

“Oh.” The deva swallows; she’s clearly not used to military speak, or taking orders, for that matter. “Well, we patched you up and got you here and really, I had no idea your kobold friend had this many blankets, it was truly remarkable, but we wrapped you up real good and got a fire going and then I cast some healing spells but had to knock _him_ back again when he got up and started to ask about you because you were still out and…”

“Deekin.” Adele turns to the kobold, and he blinks at her in surprise as he crouches next to her, because she’s using his first name. “Can you shorten that for me, please?”

“Okay.” Deekin nods. “Deekin tries. Goat-Man knocked Boss over and bit her neck. Boss’ powers knocked Goat-man off her and straight out. Nice shot. Heaven-lady and Deekin dragged everyone out from half-under dead dracolich and into treasure-chamber, made fire and patched Boss up. Heaven-lady wanted to tie Goat-Man up but Deekin said Boss be angry so she just spelled him to sleep again when he woke. Here for a while; told Heaven-Lady that Boss could use the Relic to get back to Lith My’athar quickly, but Boss woke up just then.” He tilts his head. “Is enough?”

“For now.” Adele presses her thumb between her brows to relieve the tension. “Now let me think for a moment.”

_I’d be angry if Lavoera tied Valen up, he says_. Adele firmly and decisively squelches the images Deekin’s remark conjures in her mind and the desire that rises in her to ball her hand into a fist and hiss like a cat. She decides to attribute it simply to post-battle stress-induced fatigue she knows very well from her long service to Torm.

_So I managed to Smite him somehow, after all,_ she thinks instead, and isn’t sure whether she should be horrified or relieved, as she sees (now that Deekin stood up and scurried to her other side to hand her a mug full of hot tea) the prone form of Valen, tucked in blankets much less carefully, on the other side of the fire. He is breathing slowly, and there are two red spots on his cheekbones, as if painted by fever: the rest of his face is bone-white. Adele turns her Sight on him, and is relieved to see that the roiling, oily stain of the demonic taint is gone from his aura, back to whatever deep recesses of his soul it came from. _But I’ll have time figuring that one out once we’re back in the city_. Her mouth twists as she considers the next step. _At first we need to make sure we get there_ …

“Boss knows what to do now, right?” Deekin asks, head still tilted to the side, as a bird. “Heaven-lady’s not very decisive,” he confesses in a confidential whisper, leaning closer.

“Yes, Master Scalesinger.” Adele resists the urge to pet the kobold’s head: she might be many things, but what she never wants to be is condescending towards her longtime traveling companion. “I’m afraid we’ll indeed need to use the Relic to travel.”

Deekin nods, with something like distaste on his features.

“Understand, Boss.” He sighs. “Good thing I got those books last time we be shopping, right?”

“Indeed.” Adele decides that it is time to stand up, and is incredibly relieved when she manages without falling over, or even wobbling.

_There. Testimony of excellent healing powers of divine creatures, resilient flesh and bone of prime Tantras bloodlines, the power of paladin conditioning, and a really thick skull_. _Praised be Torm._

_And now the hard part._

“Come on, general,” she mutters as she kneels by Valen’s side and smoothes his sweat-soaked hair out of his face. “Time to end your beauty sleep…”

“Are you mad?” Lavoera hisses, grabbing her wrist. “He tried to…to kill you, or _worse_! He was trying to rip your throat out and…and had his paws all _over_ you, and I am not even sure how you managed to fend him off, and I had to knock him out again when we woke up because I _knew_ he just wanted to jump up and start all over again. And you just…”

“I know what he is, Lavoera.” Adele sounds cold now as she raises her eyes at her slowly; the deva takes a step back. “I do. I fought and bled with him side by side for many weeks now. He’s a man who has a heritage that he never asked for and never wanted. He _fights it_ with all his being every time he takes a breath. He should be worthy of songs for that alone. Should I condemn him for that? I am a paladin: I was raised to recognize Light when I see it, and encourage it to grow, not to rip it out and stomp on it. Lord Torm teaches compassion as well as duty; if He decided not to kill Valen with the powers He vested in me, who am I to judge?” She shakes her head and her eyes soften a bit. “I do appreciate your efforts in aiding us and I am grateful for your decision to come and help our besieged city in need—but do not presume to judge so quickly without understanding.” She turns her attention back at Valen, who’s stirring now. “Master Scalesinger, may I have some of that excellent tea of yours, please?” she says, in a louder voice, and hands her mug to Deekin. “I have the feeling the general might need it.”

When he finally comes to, Valen bolts upright so violently he almost knocks Adele off her feet as she crouches in front of him.

“What did I… what did I do?” he asks in a hoarse voice. His eyes are wide and he breathes fast. “Are you hurt?”

“Easy there, sir.” Adele says in her most soothing voice. Both her hands are when Valen can see them, right in front of her, holding a mug full of steaming tea, and not even remotely close to her sword, dagger or any other instrument of destruction. “All is well. The dragon is dead, our injuries are tended to for the moment, but we need to get back to Lith My’athar urgently for further assessment of your wounds.”

“Are _you_ hurt?” Valen’s voice is insistent. Blue eyes, blissfully clear of any red, search Adele’s form frantically, and stop at her throat. “By the Abyss…was that me?”

“Later, sir.” Adele keeps her voice and gaze steady. “Right now we have other things to worry about: such as tending to your injury, the manner of our return to Lith My’athar and the significant amount of treasure in this room.”

“None of those are as important as…” Valen swallows what he wanted to say and looks around, taking in their environment and the two others in the small room. “You’re right,” he continues, a little less frantic and more like himself. “This is not the place. But you and I need to talk.”

_Oh, that’s to put it mildly_ , Adele has the sudden urge to giggle somewhat hysterically. _That is, yet again, one of your usually colossal understatements. Sir._

“As soon as we’re back in the city.” Instead, she makes a wise choice and hands him the mug: she’s very careful that their fingers barely touch. “My word. Now drink that and let us talk about our return.”

She is immensely relieved that the crisis was averted at least for the time being: she wasn’t looking forward to any awkwardness, explanations, accusations or else right here and now, under the watchful eyes of Lavoera, and Deekin is also there with his pen, no doubt, ready for his new book… _no_. Better to postpone all of that; sensible, really, until after the mission is completed and everyone’s safe and Valen’s grip on reality isn’t threatened by multiple auras of holiness, injuries and the lingering scent of bones, marrow and magic conjured from blood and death.

Some of the deva’s magic took hold and Valen’s wound is half-healed, if still sensitive and threatening to open up again from any swift movement. Adele inspects it herself, ignoring the tiefling’s protests about it being ‘improper’.

“Are you saying, sir,” she inquires with an eyebrow raised archly, “that wounds should only be treated by healers of the same sex? That should I fall on the battlefield, none of my fellow paladins or lay soldier-brothers were to touch it, but they should stop and yell for a female?” Her fingers work deftly on the hasty knots on the linen around Valen’s torso, and she presses her lips together. “Because if you do, I hope you realize just how awful that sounds. Now if you’re complaining because I make you uncomfortable with my paladin aura, that is…”

“Not nearly as much as you used to.” Valen holds himself very still. “Do what you need to do, Lady, then let us depart this place.”

“I am in full agreement, sir.” Adele understands very well that she’s reverting back to formalities now to help Valen rebuild his wall of iron chains around his demontaint; but, at the same time, she’s equally aware that her ministrations on his wounds, however clinical and cool the touch of her long fingers on his skin is, are not helping.

_Mine_.

It hangs between them, invisible, like that half-moon shaped scar on her throat right above where her gorget ends about half-inch from her chin, preserving the mark that he put on her.

_Mine_.

It’s there every time his too-warm skin shivers under her touch as she redresses the long wound by his side, the way he averts his gaze when she has to lean close to wrap the new linen bandage around his torso, the way he inhales a little shakily as her hair brushes his chest when she ties the last knot.

_Mine_.

She notices the scars on him, of course. Valen’s torso is riddled with them, much worse than Adele has ever seen even on veterans of decades-long conflicts in Torm’s service, and she dutifully catalogues the most noticeable ones as she works. Parallel lines of claw-marks across his chest from left shoulder to the right side of his abdomen; a large ragged bite almost exactly below his heart that makes her shudder involuntarily just from looking at it; a leaf-shaped angry red one with an exact match on the front and back of his left biceps…but those are not the worst. The worst is the almost invisibly fine latticework of raised white scars that covers his back entirely: some are deeper, some are more shallow, but the way they overlap and have a _depth_ , speaks about Valen’s past and the unspeakable tortures he suffered more clearly than any long story told in words ever could… and Adele works really hard not to spill any tears as emotions floods her soul in a wave that threatens to overwhelm her.

_Mine_.

That single word definitely changed something between them, and Adele is very much grateful that for the rest of their brief stay in that room they basically stay in the opposite sides of the fire and keep at least one of their companions between them.

To everyone’s surprise, it turns out that Deekin had more Bags of Holding stashed away in his Bag of Holding, and he and Lavoera manage to stuff a surprising amount of the most valuable items from the dragon’s hoard into them. The rest they pile in a corner with the intentions of coming back once everything is over, but what they take should provide enough influx of cash for The Seer and her army to purchase a significant amount of supplies from the caravans that pass through their part of the Underdark soon enough. The decision is also made to suggest to The Seer to offer sanctuary to the much-abused inhabitants of Drearing Deep the way she did to the surviving gladiators of Zorvak Mur; so at the end when Adele carefully extricates a softly glowing rogue stone and the oddly-shaped form of the Reaper Relic from her bag, she feels almost content with how things are going.

“And that is the means of our transportation?” Valen eyes the item with barely disguised mistrust from the other end of the room.

“Something like that, yes.” Adele carefully places the stone in front of her and whispers the single word of invocation that anchors one of the portals to this location so they can return later. “I would think that for planars such as yourself and Lavoera this shouldn’t be as…uncomfortable as for Deekin and I.”

Lavoera just nods, without offering commentary, but Valen looks a bit more interested.

“So this is basically a portal?” His tail twitches. “To where?”

Adele frowns.

“It is probably a Netherese artifact.  The scholars who examined it briefly couldn’t quite tell. It exudes immensely huge levels of magic that works for one single purpose as far as they could tell: to provide access to the portal room. The nexus itself is a kind of a pocket dimension, and the portals are opening to specified locations anchored with these rogue stones and power words.”

“Nexus, anchors, catalysts.” Valen nods. “Sigil is built like that:  hence its name, The City of Doors. Yes, I am familiar with the surface of the theory at least: but that you possess such an artifact is a surprise.” His eyebrows draw down as the general of Lith My’athar’s armies considers the strategic importance of this fact, and Adele feels a pang of regret for not telling him earlier.

“It wasn’t needed until now,” she says finally, and is relieved to see Valen nod curtly. “I hate using it: like I said, we’re not built for this kind of travel.” She takes a deep breath. “If everyone’s ready… shall we?”

She feels the familiar twist in her stomach as soon as she utters the activation word. _Gods, I hate this so much_ , she thinks, and the room around her explodes in a myriad colors swirling in nauseating cacophony.

“Welcome, Sojourner.” The voice of the Gatekeeper is just as deep, its timbre just as ghastly, its pitch is just as funereal as every other time before. “How may I serve you?”

“You could…at least…wait until I decide whether I’ll…throw up or not.” Adele gasps out, as she bends forward and reassures herself that indeed, she still has four limbs, two eyes, a nose and a mouth. _I really shouldn’t have done this so soon after my head got slammed on hard stone, but what’s necessary isn’t always pleasant_. “We need passage back to Lith My’athar.”

“You and your companions.” Still slightly nauseous and wobbly at the knees, Adele looks up to see the form of the Reaper float in front of her. The way he is always just slightly out of reach and off the ground doesn’t help with her disorientation, but at least she can see that all her companions are there and unharmed. “You’re traveling with a strange group, Sojourner.” The Reaper turns slowly to survey them. “Hmmm… a deva, a tiefling, and the kobold I’ve seen before many times, the one with the blood of dragons. This might be… interesting.”

 “ _That_ is an understatement.” Adele hears Valen murmur, and she catches a glance from him as he reaches towards her to steady her under the arm.

The movement comes so naturally to both of them that she doesn’t even notice what happened until they stand way too close. His fingers tighten on her elbow for a second, and she sees his nostrils flare…She’s suddenly keenly aware that her hair is sweaty and matted with dirt, that even the underside of her padded armoring coat is filthy, and that she hasn’t had a chance to wash up in more than a puddle of water in a dark corner since they’ve left Lith My’athar in what seems to be an age.

“Thank you,” she says hastily and steps away decisively. “I’ll be fine now.” She clears her throat and turns to the Reaper again. “As amusing as that might be for you, our need is dire for speed. We’ve brought gifts for you to bide your time with, and would depart with all due respect as soon as possible.”

“The way is open to Lith M y’athar.” The dark form waves an arm towards a slowly pulsing gateway in the darkness, then pauses, almost pensively. “Gifts, you say?”

“As usual.” Adele nods to Deekin. “Master Scalesinger, the books if you please?”

“Books?” Valen asks, somehow puzzled, looking around in the large, vaulted space with its multiple doors, recesses and alcoves. “You have your private pocket inter-dimensional portal room with its own gatekeeper, and you pay him for passage in… books?”

“Kind of.” Adele shepherds Lavoera and Valen towards the portal the Reaper indicated, and watches Deekin from the corner of her eye to start unloading several tomes with garish images on their covers. “It’s a long story, but it’s not exactly a payment. We… accidently discovered that the Reaper likes… certain stories.” She clears her throat again. “There are publishers in Cormyr specializing in a kind of…romance.”

“Ooh.” Lavoera’s face lights up. “Love stories… how sweet! You wouldn’t think, looking at him with that black robe and dark cloak that he’d be interested in…”

“Something like that.” Adele avoids looking at Valen at all costs. “I try not to think too much about it, truth to tell…”

“Boss!” Deekin’s voice pipes up by her left side, and she startles. “Boss, Reaper-Man says he be very grateful for these…’specially the one ‘Trussed Up In Nothing But…’…

“Right.” Adele cuts in, suddenly wishing she was somewhere else and fast. “Quite right, Master Scalesinger… now hurry up, if you please.” She throws a glance to the side and mutters under her breath. “I don’t select those personally, you understand. Deekin sees to that. It’s just that those awful romances have these absolutely awful titles and…”

“Of course.” For the first time in a long while, Valen sounds amused; and Adele, even though she’s still blushing slightly (and _really_ hopes that he did not see the cover of that last one when Deekin took it out of his pack), is secretly glad, especially after he adds, with a slight bow. “My lady.”


	12. Vows and Wars

12.

 

He is late, and Adele is getting more clammy-handed by the moment.

She doesn’t even remember the last time she was like this; not even in front of the Primarch, berating her for moral transgression and illicit trysts in the library with Cornelyan, not during her final examinations, not when she met Nasher Alagondar, Lord of Neverwinter the first time, not when she had to debrief after Undrentide…

Her hands are sweaty, but at least she’s clean. The meeting with The Seer, Nathyrra, Imloth and the two resident Matron Mothers of the City (one of them, Zesyyr Maeviir being brand new after her mother regrettably didn’t survive an unspecified ‘ _accident’_ , as Nathyrra said with an expression on her face that suggested Adele really shouldn’t ask) lasted for hours, and was very detailed. She felt rather drained by the end, but glad it was over and decisions were made and that she finally could go to her room and clean up…

_“See you in one hour. At the Seer’s Moss Garden.” Valen practically tossed that over his shoulder as they filed out of the war room; it sounded way too much like an order. She must have looked particularly dumbfounded, because his mouth twitched in that almost-smile of his so familiar by now and his voice softened a bit. “You know: that talk you promised we’d have?”_

_“Oh. That.” Adele stopped, and managed to look competent and with it, even though what she really wanted was to fall asleep in a tub of extremely hot water. “Yes. An hour. I will be there.”_

And so she practically ran to her rooms, and got out of her armor and clothes in record time; contemplated burning the underlayers but decided that maybe they were salvageable; blessed her luck that the temple servants always knew somehow, as if by magic, when she arrived back and filled up the tub with water that was just the right temperature ( _exactly_ one smidgen away from screaming-hot); scrubbed herself in record time until her skin was red; threw on some clothes that were, yet again as if by magic, laid out on her bed, barely even paying attention of what they looked like, except that they were in the correct order: underclothes, shirt, trousers, boots; buckled on her belt with her secondary blade (she didn’t wear Enserric in the city since an unfortunate accident at an armor-seller’s booth); then, finally, raked ten fingers through her damp hair and decided that she’d better run if she wanted to make it. 

And now she’s here and he’s late.

The Moss Garden is The Seer’s delight: a small grotto hidden behind the temple, its bluish gray rock practically covered from the floor to the ceiling in soft, slightly glowing deep-green moss, with a tiny pool in the middle. The Seer likes to meditate here, and on occasion she even sleeps on the soft bed of green—she says Eilistraee visits her dreams more often when she does. There are tiny glow lizards living on the ceiling of the grotto, hunting the little insects that also make their home down here, and slim, pale fish dart in the depths of the pool around Adele’s ankles, because yes, of course every time she comes here she has to take her boots off and stick her feet in the crystal waters, and why would this be an exception?

She recalls days at the white beaches of Tantras’ seashore, gathering shells and odd-shaped driftwood with her siblings, after the tide was coming in and they watched with wide eyes the great waves slowly creeping higher and higher. When it was gone, the shore was littered with treasure for small children, and if she closes her eyes, she can still feel the rays of the sun on her face as it was setting on the horizon and the lapping of the waves at her ankles, smell the salt in the air and hear the wailing cry of the seagulls and the long caw of the ravens.

She misses it suddenly with a fierceness that hurts more than any wound she’s received lately. It was simple, and beautiful and safe; before the coming of the Calling, the Time of Troubles, or being a Special Envoy—a childhood that will never come back, but the memories of which are still there and will always be as long as she wants to remember.

 _I really have to go home after this,_ she thinks, and it hits her that she still thinks about it as _home_ , after all this time running around in Faerun: Tantras, City of the Waves. It’s where she would always return, knocking on that slightly weathered oak door after her ship docks or her horse brought her to town, and endures the squeals of delight from her nieces and nephews and brother and sister and father and mother as they pile on her. It’s the only place where she is always smiling, however much she hates when her family makes her do chores during her stays (‘ _come on, Know-All, is it really beneath a paladin’s dignity to whisk egg whites for a cake?_ ’), or teases her about her manners or the way she doesn’t speak about her assignments as Special Envoy at all. “ _Can’t, sorry, Father_ ,” she had to say more than once when her father insisted that she explains a new scar or why she’d fallen quiet when someone said something in a particular way or whipped around tensely at shadows passing in front of the window. “ _Torm’s business_ ,” that was her shield, and “ _please do not ask again_ ,” she said if someone really pressed with direct questions because after all, she _was_ a paladin. And they always nodded and said, _’of course, sorry, love’_ , and turned the conversation to another subject; but Adele knew that afterwards her parents’ smiles got a bit sadder, their hands lingered on her arm or shoulder a bit longer, and at parting their embraces were much tighter around her.

She also misses the temple: the great sprawling halls of Torm, lavishly rebuilt after the destruction of the Time of Troubles, with their lion-headed statues made of warm yellow sandstone and white rose pergolas fragrant in the midday sun. She misses the feasthall with its long trestle tables and black-and-white tile floor, where visiting knights from missions can merge with the residents and wide-eyed novices can share a meal and the great dinking vessel, shaped like a boot, moves around more and more often as the evenings pass. Once the novices go to bed, and only the more senior members remain, the mood usually changes, and there’s less talking and even more drinking, often accompanied by terse toasts evoking the names of those who didn’t return. Adele spent many hours there too: those evenings normally end up stumbling down to the temple’s own beach under the white battlements in the pale moonlight, and finishing a last round of drink or two sitting on the still-warm sand and listening to the sea pounding the great stone wave breakers reaching far into the bay. Once or twice she even went with one of her brethren: Torm doesn’t ask for celibacy and duty and righteousness sometimes give way to the need to share more than just drink and stories. By the morning all that’s left is the taste of old wine in her mouth and the lingering scent of the other on her skin, along with that fleeting moment of contentment: the night might live on in some handshakes that are longer than usual and smiles that are warmer than what she shares with the rest, but it’s never enough, it’s never right and while it fills the void for a while, she knows that it is, like the seafoam on the beach after tide, dried up by the sun and gone by next day.

Being a Special Errant Envoy Plenipotentiary means that she’s outside the structure of Torm’s church: she only answers to the Primarch and his Small Council. It’s a lonely existence as well: while on occasion she can share irrelevant-to-mission details during those evenings around the great hall’s table, she is mostly bound to secrecy and is practically forbidden from forming attachments. Her Neverwinter mission itself, the first and longest of her career, is mostly missing from any records recounting the Luskan Wars: while the Wailing Death and the treason of the Helmites along with the betrayal of Aribeth of Tyr are in all good scholars’ books on those years, Adele Welters is not mentioned anywhere but as part of ‘a group of adventurers hired by the Lord Nasher’, and she’s perfectly fine with that. She was, after all, one of them, Torm knows the truth, and her deeds are recorded by the Primarch himself meticulously in a little book he keeps like all Primarchs before him, of the deeds other Special Envoys performed in the service of the Light.

But she’s here now, in the Underdark, sitting by a pool of water on soft moss that glows in the dark, with her feet gently nibbled on by tiny fish, and she’s waiting for someone with clammy hands she hasn’t had since her first secret meeting with Cornelyan…

Well, that’s just it.

_Complicated._

_Lord Torm help me, I am also prone to understatements,_ Adele thinks, swishing her feet around in the pool: the fish dart away, then come back again. _But I was never too good with feelings…_

“My apologies.” Yet again, she has been surprised by how quietly Valen can walk. “Nathyrra has received news that couldn’t wait.”

“It’s all right.” Adele resists the urge to jump up and wipe her hands in her trousers; she remains where she is, and merely nods at Valen. “Judging by the grim expression on your face, they were significant.”

“You can say that.” Valen sighs deeply as he indicates a spot next to Adele on the ground. “If I may?”

“Of course,” she says, and watches him to fold his feet under him, tailor-style, as he sits down. Without armor, the lethal grace in his movements is even more evident. Adele is reminded of the deceptively huge-boned sand-colored panthers at the edges of the great Anauroch Desert: the slow, quiet walk, full of coiled grace and strength that says there are very few who could be their worthy adversaries, the readiness for raining down horrible violence on the unsuspecting at every second, restrained by nothing but will alone. “What were the news?”

“Nathyrra’s apparently managed to insert someone to the Valsharess’ inner circle.” Valen’s mouth is grim. “Apart from the fact that she indicates the attack on Lith My’athar is imminent—which we’ve suspected anyway… this double agent sent a report that reveals, finally, the source of her rapid rise to power and how’s she able to maintain it.” He takes a deep breath. “The Valsharess somehow managed to make a binding and subdue a fiend of the Nine Hells from the highest level.”

“A pit fiend?” Adele swallows.

“Much worse.” Valen rubs his chin. “I didn’t believe it at first but Nathyrra says this source is absolutely trustworthy. It’s one of the archdukes.”

“Torm save us!” Adele recoils, her hand coming up to rest over her heart, five fingers splayed, in the warding gesture of all Tormtar. All previous thoughts forgotten, she stares at Valen with something like a great ball of slowly dripping acid in her stomach. “One of the Nine Dukes? How is that even possible?”

“You _did_ receive a good education, paladin.” Valen nods. “Then again, I would expect that amongst all mortals someone in your profession would know best. Yes, through some forgotten ritual or artifact long buried… who knows? The Underdark is vast, and the Valsharess amassed considerable power even before she marched on other realms and cities.”

“Do we know which one?” Adele can’t stay sitting any longer: she jumps up, feet all wet and sodden, and starts pacing up and down on the moss. In her head, she runs through the strictly guarded and rarely shared list of the known names of the archdevils: Bel, Dispater, Mammon, Belial and Fierna, Levistus…

“ _That_ is apparently a very closely guarded secret. The Valsharess never allows anyone to her innermost chamber where the archdevil’s summoning circle is.” Valen watches Adele with concern. “I thought it best to let you know, but not before I heard the whole report. If I offended you by my lateness, I…”

“No, it’s fine.” Adele rakes her fingers through her hair. “I mean it’s _not_ fine, obviously, we have a Duke of Baator on the Prime, but…” She sighs. “In the light of that, _this_ is kind of trifling.” She touches her fingers to her throat, and Valen’s eyes cloud over with pain.

“I, of course, meant to apologize for that,” he says with formality, as he rises to his feet and bows stiffly. “There’s no excuse for me allowing that to happen, and…”

“Valen.” Adele stops her pacing and, despite her mind racing desperately to try and form some kind of semi-coherent plan in light of the frightful news she’s just heard, sternly orders herself to pay attention to the here and now.

 _He needs me_.

“Listen to me. Your…taint is a condition. It’s something in your blood. It is not you.” She steps closer and puts a hand on his shoulder. “I was trained to recognize the difference; this is what I _do_.”

“Sometimes…” Valen’s voice is rough, and he’s avoiding Adele’s eyes. “Sometimes I fear it will take me over completely. Like in the Abyss.” His right hand comes up and covers Adele’s. “I do not want to hurt you ever again, my lady.”

Adele feels like every pore of her skin is charged with something where their hands meet, and for a second her Sight opens up, allowing her to witness tiny sparks along the infinitesimally narrow edge where their auras meet.

“I don’t think you would,” she says after her moment of dizziness passes. “I do think…no, I do _know_ you’re a good man.”

“I strive to be.” Valen’s chest rises with a deep sigh, and he finally meets her gaze with a slow and hesitant smile. His words are oddly formal, in a way that is so uniquely his. “My lady, your understanding humbles me even further: words can’t quite express my shame over what I’ve done. Your forgiveness, however, allows me to hope that maybe one day I will even be worthy…”

He stops himself short there, and Adele sees a slight wave of red creeping from his cheeks down on his neck.

“There I go again,” he says, and the frown returns to his features as he shakes his head. “Forgive my boldness, my lady.”

He takes a step back, gently removes Adele’s hand from his shoulder, and holds it in his own, as if it was something fragile and unbearably precious that is about to leave and never return because Adele is standing there and finds that she doesn’t have the strength to say anything…

 _Don’t you dare to do that_ , her inner voice speaks up suddenly. _You know exactly what he needs, damnation and hellfire, girl…_

“I will find a way.” Adele suddenly hears herself say in a voice that is shaky at first, but gets stronger by the second.  She grips Valen’s fingers, as if they were her anchors to keep her from falling, and takes a deep breath. “I will find a way to free you from the taint. Do you hear me? I swear on my sword and mantle, I swear by the power Torm gave me, by my sacred oath as a paladin, that I shall not rest until I find a way to set you free, Valen Shadowbreath. So witness earth, so witness sky.”

The wind comes from nowhere, whipping around them suddenly and sending the little pool’s quiet surface churning. It’s bringing with it the scent of white roses and the sound of a lion’s roar, and Adele knows then that even here, in the Underdark, under unfathomable depths of stone, Torm yet again has heard her.

Valen’s eyes are wide and disbelieving and full of emotions too complex to decipher, as his hands come up to frame her face oh so gently.

“Adele…” he breathes, and _to the Hells with it,_ she thinks with the exact same fierceness of her oath just a moment ago, and takes that final little step…

“General!” A breathless voice by the grotto’s entrance shatters the moment, and they spin, arms still around each other, to stare at the white-faced drow soldier gasping his news that fall between them like heavy stones of an impregnable wall again.

“General, the outlier scouts of Commander Imloth’s Fourth just returned with news! The Valsharess’ armies have been sighted in three days’ march from Lith My’athar. It is war!”

 

 


	13. Yours To Command

13.

 “Evening, Savior,” they greet her as she makes her rounds. They stand at attention, nod, some even salute and try to show that they are just fine, but Adele feels their fear just as palpably as the dream that gripped her heart a short time ago. The dream that woke her up with a defiant cry on her lips and her body and hair soaked in sweat, her heart racing, and her right hand reaching out towards her bedside to grab Enserric.

_Just a dream_ , she told herself, and lighted a candle, splashed water on her face and threw clothes on.

_Just a dream_ , she repeated as she padded down to the side chapel The Seer set up for her use, holding her boots on her hands, and nodding to the white-clad acolytes still holding a prayer vigil by Eilistraee’s altar in the main nave.

_Just a dream_ , she sighed into the cold air, as she kneeled on her rug and made the sign of Torm over her heart.

_Just a dream_ , she murmured as she finished her prayers and continued her silent way out of the Temple. She’s walking along the long avenue through the quiet marketplace now, by the dark and shuttered public house; the drinking gardens, normally so full of life, are now silent and empty, with only the occasional patrol that greets her respectfully as they pass by. There is light in the armory, of course, and there’s steam curling out every window and chimney: Rizolvir and his apprentices are working night-and-day since the Valsharess’ army has been sighted by the scouts. High Wizard Gulhrys’ normally so orderly and tidy courtyard and house is all in disarray as well: the gate’s open, and harried-looking drow are carrying boxes of ingredients for potions, empty bottles and bags smelling like foul substances in and out the main door, while noxious odors waft out one of the open windows upstairs and she can faintly hear the wizard’s voice from inside yelling: ‘ _no, I said rakshasa eyes, curse it, I know there were more in cold storage, so get!_ ’

_The entire city is like that since the scouts came back_ , Adele remembers, and pulls her cloak closer on her shoulders. She supposes this is also something The Valsharess and her magic-users are doing: the temperature in Lith My’athar is falling steadily from its normal even warmth to something she remembers from when she infiltrated the Northern city of Luskan. There’s no rain, of course, but there’s an odd drizzle falling because the normally moist air of the cave complex the city’s hiding in reacts oddly to the temperature change. Adele’s sure Gulhrys would be able to explain it all: magical theory wasn’t really something her studies really delved into beyond the basics.

_This is war_ , she remembers the white-faced drow scout’s voice, and how everything seems to be since then like she is under the influence of a permanent Speed potion. She climbs the stairs leading to the battlements, nods to the guards crouching next to their fires with their barrels of arrows and huge pots of boiling pitch and reflects on how eerily similar all of this is to how Neverwinter looked just before the Luskan siege. All the frantic activity that erupted from the quiet surface of the everyday scenes around her, all the grim determination and the quiet hopelessness shared only with those closest to you when no one else looks…

She finds a quiet spot on one of the towers and leans against the cold stone of the crenellation, wishing that she could get the dream, _that_ dream out of her head.  It is a good vantage point, and she wrinkles her brow trying to figure out why no one is here. Out of reflex, she sweeps the corners and checks to see if the door leading down is bolted, but everything is as it should be. She then recalls how she passed two soldiers while deep in thoughts just a few minutes ago, and understands that they let her to have some privacy out of respect.

_No doubt they are watching_ , though, she thinks as she returns to her earlier spot. _The eyes of this entire city are on me, practically since I’ve arrived, and even more since the word of the approaching army has reached us._

If she looks down, she can see the outer gates in the distance and, amongst the dots of distant fires, a glimpse of golden light on hair and wingtips. Lavoera is positioned there, her presence greatly bolstering the resolve of those in that almost-hopeless position of first contact with the horde of death that is nearing them minute by minute and hour by hour. She has asked for that assignment, eager to test her mettle against an army that is led by a sorceress making pacts with the very forces of Hell. Yes, the deva was _very_ specific about where she wanted to be when the enemy arrives.

Adele wishes it would be as simple for her as well. Lavoera almost thrives now that the conflict is imminent: she and Commander Imloth were almost like two children in the past couple of days, practically crackling with eagerness to devise more and more ingenuous ways to make the Valsharess pay for every step to the city wall and beyond. Their energy was infectious: Adele suspected it was on purpose, and watching The Seer’s gentle smile listening to them telling her about yet another device, trap or magical obstacle they managed to somehow squeeze out of whatever stores Lith My’athar still possessed, she found her own confidence boosted by their excited laughter as well.

Until the dream came, tonight.

She thought she planned for everything, prepared for everything, had all the eventualities covered. In the low-ceilinged war room of the Temple, leaning over maps and the tiny to-scale model of the city painstakingly modeled by dozens of drow craftsmen from the minute The Seer arrived to Lith My’athar, she believed everything will work out. Ferron’s golems have arrived last night, their feet shaking the docks when they landed from their boats, and she still remembers Dahanna’s face as the duergar mercenary grinned up at her from the huge metal golem’s side. “ _Look, the surfacer is still here, too. Figured we might try to see if there’s pay in this whole freedom business, ya know? Turns out Ferron here was in need of some additional forces that possess the means of river transport and it just happens me merry band fits that description. We were never ones to back out of a fight, after all._ ”

The gladiators of Zorvak’Mur, Drearing Deep’s former slaves, the beholders’ kobold servants led by Attiz… they all came, they are all here, and, along with every single inhabitant of Lith My’athar above the age of sixteen, are armed and have a position to hold when Sergeant Osyyr’s scouts will finally give the word. These past three days were a blur, but a familiar one; Adele has done this before, and knows that they are ready, as ready as they can be. Everything is balanced, like the finely honed edge of an excellent blade, all the infinite possibilities of the future gathered together, and Adele, in the whirlwind of the frantic activities, meetings, surveys, musters and yes, speeches of the past three days found that whenever her control over sanity started to slip, whenever she needed an anchor to reality, a counterbalance to the weight on her shoulders, she only had to feel the slightest touch from Valen’s hand and felt like the world was all in order again.

Not that they had a lot of opportunity for even _that_ , Adele reflects now, feeling her lips twist into a smile. When you are the leading figures of a city under siege, every waking moment is spent in the company of others, there’s absolutely no privacy, and even sleep is nothing but an hour here and there, dozing fitfully between the frantic rush of battle preparations, head resting on the crackling parchment of a map or scout report. She was sent to bed by The Seer after the first twenty-four hours when she literally fell asleep in mid-sentence; she managed four hours before was roused by Imloth telling her the golems have landed. Valen suffered the same fate:  if Nathyrra hasn’t yanked a soup bowl away from him he’d have fallen into it face first the second day towards eveningtime. “ _Some of us will get no use for you, General, if you burn your pretty face off, so shoo, get some sleep_ ,” the drow assassin winked, and Adele wanted to kick her under the table, but resisted valiantly.

And her last attempt at getting rest has ended with… _that_. Adele still shivers, recalling how vivid the dream was in every detail: the heavy exotic scent hanging in the air, the rich colors of the draperies, the luxurious surroundings, the shimmering silks and gold jewelry accentuating the ebony skin and snowy hair of the statuesque drow woman, whose rich alto voice tried so very hard to sound soothing and reassuring…

_“You have proven yourself to me, Adele Welters. A powerful female, able to shake all the Underdark before her… Think on it: together, our power would be unstoppable. With you at my side, all of the Underdark would be ours... and the surface world, as well. Who wouldn’t want this? Maybe there’s even something you really want that I can help you to get once this is all over…Something, or someone?”_

“Trying to check on the defenses until the last, hm?” Curse his uncanny ability to sneak up on her… yet again. Adele startles, but manages to barely move her head as Valen makes himself comfortable on the narrow stone bench next to her. “I would say it’s unnecessary except that here I am, doing the same. Old habits die hard.” His eyes narrow as he takes in her face. “I thought you were ordered to get some sleep, Lady. Forgive my boldness, but you’re of no use to us in battle if you’re not rested.”

_Pot, Kettle_ , Adele thinks with a certain amount of edge to it, but decides not to push that line of thought.

“Bad dreams,” she responds instead curtly, because really, that’s what it was, and Valen raises an eyebrow.

“I see. The ‘we-all-die-in-horrible-ways’ kind?”

_Lord Torm, bless him for his ability of being utterly formal in one second, and saying something like that in the next_.   _And may he keep it up, because I do need it._

“The ‘I-am-being-tempted-by-a-really-badly-dressed-woman-offering-things’ kind.” Valen snorts at that and Adele allows herself to grin. “It was useful at least for putting a name with the face: Sinvyl, Matron Mother of House Barrit’tar. She kept talking. Gods, but she likes to hear her own voice. I’d have been amused at every other time at just how misdirected the effort was, you know, except that I now know who we face and who serves her. It was… exceptionally vivid in every detail; I think that’s what rattled me most.”

“Let me see if I understand this right: The Valsharess tried to persuade you to side with her?” Valen pronounces the words very carefully. “She must be _really_ desperate.”

“That’s what I think. It seemed much more than merely the feverish product of my exhausted imagination: I’d have added more clothes on her, for starters.” There’s that snort again: Adele’s melancholy mood is almost gone.

“She, of course, doesn’t know that it has been tried before.” She makes a face, remembering other cities, other evil sorceresses, other dreams and whispers… “I think this disturbed me on a different level, though. “ She rubs her hands together. “Gods, but her wizards at least are competent… it’s getting colder by the minute.”

“You know, gloves _do_ exist for nights like this.” Valen shakes his head: his voice is that of the superior officer scolding a solider, except that his blue eyes glint with amusement. “I could have sworn you _had_ a pair or two. In fact, I could have sworn I specifically told Rizolvir to save that special one with the cold resistance spell for you. Did you not get it last time you went to the armory for that fitting?”

“Don’t remind me how many hours of sleep I did not have, please.” Adele resists the temptation to either stand at attention or otherwise stick her tongue out at him. “Yes, I went to see him about that armor fitting. Yes, the new set is amazingly beautiful, and I have no idea how he pulled it off, given what he had to work with.” She glances at Valen sideways. “I left it in my room. I could go and get it, but…”

“But I live to serve, my lady.” Valen’s fingers are warm, and cradle Adele’s hands with ease. “There. Would that do, at least for now?”

“Perfect.” Adele takes a deep breath; her hands were never dainty or small, and especially now, after the past weeks’ intense fighting, her knuckles are swollen, fingers nicked by sharp blades, callouses rubbed raw from hours of swordwork at end, but the way Valen holds them makes her forget all of that. Not to mention that the honorific ‘my lady’ sounds from his lips just…

_Well_.

_I could have sworn it wasn’t this warm just a second ago_.

She tries to control the tremble in her voice as she realizes that this is practically their first time alone since that time in the Moss Garden…if you can call ‘up on the city battlements within shouting distance from about a dozen soldiers’ alone.

_But this bench is narrow, and he’s close and by Torm, he is practically radiating warmth_ …

“Valen.” She clears her throat and notices that half-amused, half-uncertain look in Valen’s eyes that nearly makes her forget what she wanted to say. _Gods, he probably feels almost exactly as awkward as I_. “We… well, we didn’t have much time alone since what seems to be forever and…”

“Which is why this finally might be the proper time to thank you for what you said in the Seer’s garden. My lady.” She almost laughs out loud at that, and the discord between _that_ and what she really feels finally makes her realize what’s actually happening.

“Oh,” she says with that half-giggle making it all the way out of her lips, along with the words, “that’s right. I am punch-drunk on impending doom. I do this often before battles: can’t really control it. Sorry,” she adds, apologetically, and the slow grin on Valen’s lips makes her heart to skip a beat.

_Yet again, he seems to be reading my thoughts._

_Also, he has an absolutely wonderful mouth. I wonder if it’s a sin to notice that, Lord?_

“So that’s what it is, then?” One of his hands tilts her chin upwards, and she can feel his warm breath on her face. “I just want to make sure I’m not breaking any paladin codes, you understand.”

“I don’t _think_ so.” Adele looks serious for a second, as if she’d even be considering the possibility; that, she hopes, disguises her very un-warriorlike trembling right now.

_Or something_.

“Isn’t your aura itching? From mine, I mean?” She can’t believe she just said that; yes, indeed, she has the pre-battle jitters in full effect now, _thank you very much, Lord Torm, for blessing me with this almost schoolgirl-like behavior right before madness and carnage descends, every single time_ …

_Or maybe it’s not just that, you know, but this man right here and knowing that you might die any time after tomorrow. The ages-old recipe for either bliss or disaster, and you really should know better…_

“I’m getting used to it.” He winks, and his forehead touches hers, gently bumping. “I’d told you that I just needed to spend more time in your company and it would get better. Right now, truth to tell, it actually… feels rather nice.” He closes his eyes for a second, and adds, almost absently. “Mmm.”

_Gods. He’s doing this on purpose._

_Bastard._

_Of course, it’s not that I exactly mind._

“Imp.” Adele whispers, and it suddenly doesn’t matter that she just _knows_ there are witnesses to this, almost certainly, and knowing how drow males are practically obsessed with observing her wherever she goes _(‘it’s that surfacer mystique, my dear,’_ Nathyrra explained to her once early on, ‘ _they are trying to figure out where you fall in the dominance scale compared to drow females and maybe trying to see if they got a chance to have a…direct experience’_ ), there probably are bets being paid off right now…but gods, this also feels _good_ , being held like this, nice and tight and cozy and not even caring how his other arm snuck around her waist like that… it’s just _right_.

“I’ve told you already: wrong family of fiends,” he whispers back, mouth a half-inch from hers. “Can’t they even teach that right in paladin school?” And _yes, this here paladin is totally punch-drunk on doom and other…things_ , Adele thinks, and _the hells with it, Special Envoy Welters, take that initiative, dammit_ …

“Yes, sir, General Shadowbreath, sir,” she chokes out, and, hoping that there will not be any interruptions this time, _please Torm, please_ , indeed does take that initiative.

There are, thankfully, no interruptions. That first kiss is almost tentative, no more than a light touch of their lips, almost as if both of them are afraid of what might happen, but the tentativeness is fading fast and Adele feels that an irresistible maelstrom is threatening to swallow her if she’s not careful. Valen’s hair is like soft silk threads under her fingers, and she feels him growl against her lips as she pulls on the tie that holds it together. It finally comes loose and her hands tangle in the fiery locks: she hears herself let out a tiny, content sigh against the corner of Valen’s mouth, and it’s nice and wonderful, but not _quite_ enough, he’s way too careful and slow, even when her fingers work their way to the base of his horns and he shudders at her touch. She arches up, impatiently, trying to find a better way to get close to him on the awkwardly narrow bench, and finds that sliding into his lap seems to be almost as natural as breathing. Breathing, that, lately, became increasingly difficult, because that next kiss just keeps going on and on and on…

_Whoa, there, now_ , the ever vigilant part of her mind speaks up, sensing something huge and red and snarling hover at the horizon of her consciousness, and the crescent-moon shaped wound on her throat tinges with warning as Valen nips tiny kisses down her chin, tilting her had back and his teeth scrape at the scar tissue, to return to her mouth again, even more hungrily: lips, teeth, tongue… _Hold those horses just a little bit there, Adele… Remember that whole control thing_?

_Remember who you are;_ the thought echoes as she pushes a bit on his chest and feel him reluctantly give. _And never forget who he is._

“Wow.” Despite all of that, however, that’s all she manages to say, brilliantly, when they finally part. She stares at Valen, searching for any warning signs but only sees a man well and thoroughly kissed: pupils dilated, only the slightest specks of red in them, nostrils flaring, hair in disarray, lips slightly swollen and parted…

“Wow,” he agrees in a shaky voice and leans his forehead against hers again. Adele rests her palm over his heart and feels its beat: impossibly fast. He continues after a slight pause. “I take it that means you’ve finally ran out of witty repartees?”

_Thank you, Lord: he’s here. He’s fully here. With me_.

“I believe what you _wanted_ to say is that you’ve finally managed to shut me up.” Adele feels his chest rumble with laughter and his arms clasp her to him suddenly so tight she can barely breathe.

“I’m _most_ glad that I did that, my lady.” He inhales deeply, nose buried in her hair, and Adele wants to be nowhere else and do nothing for about a month right now. “Mmmm. You smell like summer, you know that? Summer and sunlight, roses and a little bit of seawater.”

“Oh.” She, quite absurdly, _does_ blush at that _. You say the sweetest things, and you kiss like no one else, and your smile makes me want to put you in my pocket so I could have you with me forever, and I think I am falling in love with you_ , she wants to say, but instead what comes out is: “Good nose.”

“ _Good nose_?” Valen holds her at arm’s length and looks at her, disbelieving. “Good nose, she says. My lady Adele just got kissed so she can barely catch her breath, and when she finally can, all she says is ‘good nose.’” He snorts. “I didn’t expect odes, you know… after all, paladins are not _exactly_ renowned across the Planes for their poetic souls, but surely, I deserve better?”

Adele swallows, getting lost on those blue eyes again. _Torm help me, I am in such trouble._

“How about… I make it up to you and once all of this is over, Lith My’athar is saved and we are free to go wherever we want, I show you Waterdeep?”

“A guided tour though the City of Splendors, with my lady by my side.” Valen tilts his head to the side, pondering. “Do I like the sound of that? Yes, I believe I do.” The sparkles of mischief in his eyes return, making the fatigue and lines of going way too long without sleep disappear from his face. He leans towards her again, and brushes his lips across hers with tantalizing slowness. “As long as there are a _lot_ of stops along the way,” he adds in a low voice, with emphasis on the word ‘lot’, and Adele feels dizzy again.

_I need to do something_ , she thinks as the pull of the maelstrom returns: Valen’s teeth catch her right earlobe with just the perfect amount of force, and her breath hitches. _This is not the place, not the time…but gods, soon._

_Soon._

_But I’m not quite ready to just break off and get back to my ice-cold room with the memories of that dream just yet. Is that bad of me, Lord?_

“Listen, I know there are about a dozen soldiers watching right now,” she says quickly, and her urge to chuckle returns as she sees Valen’s  pulling away from her with remarkable speed, cheeks coloring slightly, “so how about instead of umm, entertaining them further, we try to catch some shut-eye up here before first watch change, and plan out the grand tour and other, ah, optional activities, once we finished eliminating that little obstacle coming our way and impending doom no longer makes me feel like I am sixteen again?”

“That’s my lady.” Valen murmurs, as she settles in against his chest, head on his shoulder, his hand absently stroking her hair. “Practical, till the end.” He takes a deep breath and Adele, fast sinking towards sleep, barely catches his whisper. “I am, of course, yours to command.”

 


	14. Convergences

  
 

14.

 

City battles are ugly. Sieges have a way to either keep going and going for days, weeks even (Adele knows of one that went for five months, utterly exhausting both opponents), or they end fast—and when they do, it’s sudden, bloody, sweaty, full of really bad smells, smoke, yelling and cursing. In other words, not pretty at all.

 _Like this one_. Adele, leaning on Enserric in the inner courtyard of Lith My’athar’s gates, understands much more Valen’s description of drow warfare now. “ _It’s like when two great shadows silently meet. A fleet of assassins and dark magic seeking the throat of the opponent_ ”, he said once.

Adele coughs, spits some grit and blood out of her mouth, heaves herself on her feet using Enserric, blessedly silent for now, as a crutch, and thinks that, yet again, that was one of the general’s colossal understatements.

 _Her_ general’s.

“ _He really should get a medal for that_ ,” she thinks in that bizarre frame of mind she gets into right before and after battle and coughs again. “ _Champion of Understatements_. _Maybe I can get one made in Waterdeep once this is all over_?”

She really hopes he’s all right. While she requested to be stationed here, where the danger of the enemy breaking through was the largest, she stood her ground and told Valen to go back to the Temple to guard The Seer and the waterfront, in case Cavallas’ information proved correct and the movement along the river he’s observed the previous days might have signaled that The Valsharess found a way to transport troops to attack them that way.

“ _You’re not allowed to get hurt, Savior,” he told her gruffly when he finally agreed to lead that bannerful of golems to personally guard The Seer and the two other Matron Mothers back at the Temple Square. There were hundreds of eyes on them, all around: firelight gleaming off helmets and spearheads, all in silent readiness. “And that’s an order.” He towered over her, every inch the consummate warrior in the verdant glory of his armor, his new cloak, with enchantments from The Seer and her priestesses woven into its embroidery whipping around him in the cold wind suddenly rising._

_“Of course.” She nodded, chin held high, armor polished to an eye-hurting shine, helmet’s visor open to show only part of her face: silver-and-white answer to his green-and-gold. Her face remained expressionless; only Valen saw her wink. “We have plans, after all.”_

_“Keep that in mind,” he nodded back, mouth barely twitching, and lifted a hand to clasp hers in the gauntleted, entirely formal farewell of two warriors before battle. Adele suspected Deekin was making sketches for his book: it was certainly a moment worthy of a painting._

_“I most certainly will keep_ you _in mind, my General,” she murmured just before they parted, and even through the rising cheers of those surrounding them she could hear his snort. She also felt a savage satisfaction, decidedly uncharitable but one fitting the occasion and resisted the urge to punch the air triumphantly: yes, yet again she made Lith My’athar’s general blush._

 _I would really, really like to make that a habit that lasts for the rest of our lives,_ she thinks now, and grins, despite the fact that her silver armor is all covered in grime and soot now, the left pauldron lost, and the white cloak is barely more than a ragged piece of cloth hanging from her shoulder.

She’s alive, mostly unharmed, and, as she lifts her head, can hear the trumpets from the battlements that signal that the enemy is retreating.

 _Summoning devils into the midst of us_ , _that was fun_. She spits again to clear her mouth. _Given whom the Valsharess allied herself with, of course, it’s an understandable tactic._ Yet despite all preparations and even disseminating the information of the possibility of ‘arcane summonings of unidentifiable, possibly infernal entities’ during the battle, the frequency with which the enemy spellcasters performed the feats of conjuration was frightening both in its numbers and the ferocity of the creatures appearing. Adele is grateful that Lavoera was there; she held the very front against waves of the enemy and seeking out the wizards and clerics with impeccable aim of her own spells, while Adele herself threw all her abilities into holding the inner courtyard, with Deekin and Nathyrra by her side.

 _I sure hope they are fine_ , she thinks now, trying to circle the smoking corpse of a huge pit fiend: the stone itself melted where it fell, and there are little fires all around the courtyard from its last spell. Adele coughs again and tries to see through the haze of smoke, squinting to see more than indistinct shapes beyond five steps. The people she can see are too exhausted to even greet her properly: they just stand aside and let her pass. She peers at them intently, trying to see if any of them needs healing, or wears the white armband of the runners bearing possible news.

“Savior! Savior!” A young aide of Imloth Adele recognizes from the late night briefings materializes by her right just as she reaches the gates that lead to the city proper. “I found you, thank the goddess!”

“I am all right.” Adele says curtly and looks him up and down for signs of bleeding before she continues. “Are you injured? Is anyone in need of healing? Do you have news?”

“I am fine, ma’am.” The young drow (Calimar, Adele remembers his name now), shakes his head. “Casualties are directed to the areas we’ve set up previously for medical assistance, and we have clerics in sufficient numbers to treat the wounded until further…” He wobbles on his feet a bit, and Adele’s arm shoots out to lend him aid.

“You’re _not_ fine, Calimar,” she says firmly, noticing the singed wound of a luckily misguided fire spell on his back now that he’s leaning on her. “Don’t lie to the paladin.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” the drow mumbles as Adele carefully lowers him to the ground and places her hand on his head. “Just wanted to let you know first…”

“Hush now.” Adele closes her eyes, refusing to contemplate what that might mean. _He’s fine. I know he’s fine. He better be fine, otherwise I’ll punch him in the face myself._ “I need to see to your wound.” She takes a deep breath and calls up the words invoking her divine powers in the service of Torm to heal. The force of it, even after these many years, still shakes her, but she grits her teeth and channels the energies up and through her palm, into the wounded man in front of her. She can feel through her fingertips the relief flooding his entire being as the healing takes hold, and as she opens her eyes, she sees him smiling at her wanly.

“Thank you, Savior. I am honored.” Calimar climbs to his feet, still gingerly, but using his back more fully and Adele knows that he’ll be fine. “You saw to my needs before I could tell you my news,” he says next, quietly, and she feels something cold and dreadful squeezing her stomach. “Why?”

“My needs come after those whom I protect.” The words come to her lips before she can even think. “Duty first, Calimar. Always.”

“He said you’d say that.” The drow grins and Adele suddenly feels dizzy. She’s reasonably sure it’s from the powers spent in the healing, but she still puts a hand out and grabs the cold steel of the gate and hopes that the vast relief she feels doesn’t show on her face.

_He’s fine. He’s alive. Thank you, Lord. Thank you._

“General Shadowbreath’s compliments, ma’am, and he bids you to come to the Temple as soon as you secured the area here. He told me to tell you there was some ‘not quite unexpected armed activity’, but nothing to worry about.”

“I don’t worry.” Adele mutters as she looks around, notices Lavoera’s golden wings shine through the haze and starts towards her, almost, but not quite running. “I merely take all eventualities into account during planning.” She takes a deep breath and calls towards the deva, who is currently busy dispatching a weakly struggling wounded erinyes: Calimar winces as Lavoera’s mace crushes the fallen angel’s skull.

“Oh, Adele, hello!” Lavoera waves a gauntleted hand casually, shaking hair and skull bits and blood off her weapon. “Glad to see you are well. I am just making sure the last bits are… cleaned.”

“And I am relieved to see you well, too.” Adele bows from the waist: the courtesy is ingrained, and practiced for so long, she probably would be able to perform the salute even half-dead. And a deva on the battlefield is best be treated very, very nicely. “If you feel you have this area well in hand, I shall depart towards the Temple to see if everything is order over there. There are news of an attack from the riverside.”

“They got through, the evil scum!” Lavoera’s fist clenches by her side. “I knew it wouldn’t be just a simple frontal attack! Do you need me there?”

 _There was nothing simple about this attack_ , Adele thinks, knowing that her entire body will probably be one huge bruise after that last encounter with the pit fiend, but wisely refrains from voicing that thought.

“I believe everything is well in hand, but the General wishes to see me.” Lavoera nods, with a slight frown: she is still unable to come to terms with the fact that a tiefling outsider can serve the Light, albeit she was noticeably less hostile with Valen during these last days. “If you could find Nathyrra and Deekin and let them know…”

“Of course.” The deva nods, tilting her head to the side for a second, listening. “You go; I think I hear another devil whimpering over there, curse their dark hides!” Lavoera jumps into the air, great wings opening with tremendous force to carry her to another corner of the courtyard. “I promise all will be well here!” she yells back, then another crunching sound, and she yells again. “Take _that_ , Hellspawn!”

Adele tries to wipe at her face, but her helmet’s in the way. She fumbles at the buckles, and finds that her hands are shaking too much to undo even one.

 _Battle fatigue, just in time_. _Come on, Adele, you’ve done this before. Deep breaths and count: one, two…_

“Let me help, ma’am,” Calimar says and steps closer. “I squired for Commander Imloth long enough…”

“Thank you.” Adele nods gratefully: it feels unbearably good to have the great helm off her head. “Speaking about our good commander: how is he? Do we know?”

“Wounded on the leg, cursing up a blue streak at the healer who said it might have to be taken off, then wanting to come back here and finish all the devils off to teach the Valsharess a lesson.” Calimar’s smile betrays deep fondness towards the volatile-tempered commander of the City. “They managed to give him a Sleep potion after a while, I think.”

“Excellent.” Adele yanks the helmet liner off herself, and, with the helmet itself under her arm, starts to walk towards the city core. “I would hate not to hear him berating the troops from half a mile away any more, you know?”

“Indeed, Savior.” Calimar follows at her heel, just like he’s done it with Imloth since Adele first saw him. “If you don’t mind my asking…” the young drow hesitates, “do you think we won? That it’s really over?”

“We need to assess the situation back at the Temple, Calimar,” Adele says as gently as possible, “but the Valsharess’ troops were rooted today from our gates without them getting anywhere further than the outer courtyards. I would think that this day was won—but we need to see what their next move will be before we decide.”

“The General said you probably would want to send out sorties to assess their movements while we regroup in here.” Calimar nods, thoughtful. “The troops think that… and pardon me for being forward, but…”

“That is perfectly all right.” Adele slows down, remembering that Calimar’s wound must still be tender. “What do the troops say?”

“They are…they are just kind of surprised at and impressed by how well you and him work together.” The drow frowns. “We would have thought that your kind and his…”

“And before I met Nathyrra, I thought all drow are fonts of evil and must be killed on sight.” Adele sighs. “There are no easy answers, Calimar: but I’ve traveled enough in the service of Torm to realize that things are a little bit more complicated than what some of my more zealous comrades-in-arms imagine them to be. There is such a thing as Good and Evil, yes, we’ve seen that today quite plainly, I think: but you can’t tell the color of a man’s soul just by looking at them. “ She smiles, thinking back at how confused she was when first time she used her Sight at Valen and saw something completely different than what she expected. “The ‘smite-first-ask-questions-later’ school of thought amongst paladins, of course might disagree with me,” she adds as she remembers some stories she’s heard about the deeds of certain members of Torm’s clergy during the Time of Troubles. “Nevertheless, that’s one of the more important things I’ve _really_ learned here in the Underdark.”

 _Apart from just how well a certain tiefling can kiss_ , the battle-fatigued part of her mind supplies, and Adele bites her lip.

“I understand.” Calimar looks a little less formal now although still thoughtful. “You’re very wise for your years, Savior.”

“For my…” Adele stops, then sighs. “Fine; how old are _you_?”

“Practically a child, ma’am.” Calimar’s smile is bashful. “Barely a hundred; I merely passed my initiation into the warrior ranks before we fled our city to here. My father…” He swallows. “The drow normally do not talk about these things, Savior, but Eilistraee’s service changed many things in me, and…well. Commander Imloth is my father.”

“I…see.” Adele says, and indeed, now a couple of things make a little bit more sense. “I appreciate you telling me, Calimar.” She looks up and her heart suddenly is in her throat: they are nearing the temple square and there’s smoke and the smell of blood in the air here as well.

“Excuse me,” she says distractedly, and starts to walk faster, even faster…then she breaks into a run, amongst ruined buildings, scattered weapons and the occasional body until she is stopped by two sentries seemingly appearing out of the thin air next to a pile of rubble and some carts and barrels thrown together in a hasty barricade. They are armed to the teeth and look exhausted but all the more dangerous because of that.

“Savior,” the taller of them, a wide-shouldered human gladiator, nods grimly. Argosus, former slave leader of the Zorvak’Mur rebellion. “Will the gates hold?”

“Argosus,” Adele greets him, clasping his offered arm hard. “I am glad to see you. Yes, the gates will hold. By Torm’s grace and Eilistraee’s, the enemy is retreating.” She looks around, eyebrows raised at the scene that looks nothing like she’s expected. “How do we fare here? I was told there was some enemy activity from the riverside, but this looks a bit…more involved than that.”

“Bloody illithid came right through the second wave.” Argosus winces, glancing over his shoulder. “First some of those drow swordmasters, quite a lot of them, just coming up from the river, quiet-like as the fog rolled in. About what we feared. Cavallas had time to sneak away and warn some of the sentries… just in time too. Good thing we prepared for something like that. “His grin is sudden and fierce. “General swore like I haven’t heard anyone before, though. Man fights like a demon, too, not only cusses. Anyway, we got those cut down…The Seer came out and she and her priestesses started to patch our wounded up and there was the runner from the gates saying something about the battle going well there.” He scratches the back of his neck under his lopsided helmet. “Now that’s when the ground started to rumble and the umberhulks poured out.”

“Gods.” Adele looks around: Argosus led her straight through the hastily erected barricade, leaving his companion behind. Calimar follows, looking around wild-eyed: the city core obviously has fared badly. “Is the Seer all right?” She hesitates. “Is the General?”’

_Lord, if this all was just a setup for a horrible joke played on me in the last minute, I’ll have you know that I am officially tired of the ups and downs of this past week._

“Bah, nothing can kill that man, you should really know by now.” Argosus waves a huge hand. “Tore two mindflayers’ heads right off when they got too close to the Seer. Tore them off, then bludgeoned a third one to death _with_ them: it was right messy, and The Seer got a bit green around the edges when the General was done, but they are both fine.” The former gladiator’s face grows grim. “Many others aren’t, though: you know just how nastily the illithid fight.”

“That I do.” Adele’s voice is cracking: her throat is parched like after a full day’s march in the Anauroch desert, and she’d give half an arm for some water right now. “Do you have something to drink, Argosus?” she finally decides to ask, because well, you never know.

“I reckon you might need something after defending those gates, huh?” The man looks her over, and his eyes narrow. “And you say you’re not wounded? Ye gods, woman, there’s not a spot on you that is not filthy. Was that bad, huh?” He unclasps a flask from his belt and hands it over.

“Paladins.” He chuffs, with something like admiration in his voice as he watches Adele grab the flask as if her life depends on it. “Never thought I’d see one in my life and look, here I am, talking with one who drinks from my own flask. It’s just water,though,” he adds, almost apologetically.

“It’s the nectar of the gods right now, Argosus.” Adele is breathless when she hands the flask back, but she feels much better. Some of the water trickled down her chin and neck, and she wipes at it impatiently. “And thank you. Yes, it was bad there.”

“Figured, when we saw the fires.” Argosus nods. “Valsharess’ wizards gave you hard time?”

“Summoned devils.” Adele says succinctly and Argosus whistles loud and long, before he reaches out an arm and points.

“Look, there they are.” Adele whips her head around, and sees the color of clear moonlight and verdant fields right next to each other.

“I get back to my post if you don’t mind: have some cleanup work to do…” the former gladiator says, but Adele hardly hears him. Her feet are moving again, towards the steps of the half-ruined temple (‘ _really good aim on some spellcaster’s part’_ , it runs through her head vaguely), where  silver and flame-framed head bends together in quick discussion and fragments of sentences waft towards her like the remnants of the fog from the river.

“…told you to remain in the temple, Mother Seer, this is well in-hand and…”

“…know that, Valen, but your wounded certainly need healing. You…”

‘’…fine myself. Have we heard about the gates since…?”

“Be calm, dear one. Adele knows how to…”

“I know that!” That last one was more a snarl than speech. “But if she was hurt, I…” Adele sees The Seer placing a hand on Valen’s arm ( _and gods, his armor is just as dented and soiled as hers, even more if possible, crimson blood clinging to its intricate etching_ ) but he turns away with one angry swoosh of his tail…

…straight towards her.

“You got red on you, sir.” Adele can’t believe she just said that and yet, it’s the first thing that comes out of her mouth. “All over.” She feels like she could just go and punch out three more pit fiends, bare-handed, though, because _he’s here, and he’s well, and_ …

“Happens in battle.” His voice is strained and hoarse, the flecks of red in his eyes are rapidly swallowed by the depths of blue as he looks her up and down, but he does not move. “How fares the day, Savior?”

“The day…” Adele swallows, staring at him through the smoke as she straightens and finds the strength to make sure her voice carries loud and clear across the temple square. “The enemy army is retreating from the city gates in defeat. The day is ours.”

“Good.” Valen nods, and his eyes narrow. “Then we have time for _this_.”

Before Adele could react, he crosses the distance between them on those long legs of his, crushes her against his chest so hard their armor creaks as his tail whips around her waist, tight as a coiled rope, and Adele has no time to say anything because his hot mouth descends on hers as inevitably as daylight follows night.

“You’re alive,” he whispers against the corner of her mouth and kisses her again, and again, long and hard. “You’re alive,” he mutters in wonder, hands framing her face. “You’re alive,” he moans as she throws her arms around his neck, rises on her toes and kisses him back with the frenzy of all her pent-up worry, tongue curling against his.

The next few minutes are rather hazy: it’s all him, his scent filling her nostrils, strong fingers in her hair, body pressed against hers; all entwined, they sway as one to keep their balance and Adele hears him growl in frustration at the layers and layers of steel, chainmail, leather and cloth that separate their bodies despite the closeness.

“Needs to take this… somewhere else,” she mumbles raggedly into his neck and he laughs, shakily but with happiness unheard before and kisses her again, nodding his agreement while doing so, one hand sliding down to her hips.

“And fast,” he says hoarsely, and scoops her up in his arms as easily as if she was wearing silks and not full armor, never stopping kissing her. “There’s a crowd here,” he adds, slightly biting down on her lower lip, and Adele at that moment would agree to just about _anything_.

Through that thick, red-tinged haze of _want_ she hears calls and scattered applause rise from the soldiers around them, hears The Seer’s amused chuckle nearby and buries her face against Valen’s chest… and then, suddenly, searing pain cuts through everything, her entire body feels like it is about to burst into flame, as the world spins and swirls, falls into tiny sparks that ignite and consume her from within.

Valen’s warmth disappears, along with his arms and fingers and the roar that burst forth from his lips as she’s scooped up by a wave of magic unheard-of before, away from him, away from the temple square, of Lith My’athar and its victorious crowd…

…to tumble her on her knees, coughing and heaving into a cold black slab of marble, in a circle of torches, twisted statues and figures clad all in red.

“Excellent,” she hears the rich and purring tones of a female voice she knows well from her dreams. “Right on time, too.”

Adele feels something snap inside her. She springs up, eyes still dazzled, snarling and launching forward, drawing her sword in one motion and striking out towards where she thinks her kidnapper is; she feels a scream of wrath and rage well up in her chest and burst forward from her lips…

“ _There’s_ that fury I’ve heard so much about.” It’s the Valsharess, indeed, in the flesh this time: she wears even less clothing and more intricate paint and metal twisted about her body than she did in her nightmare. She stands in front of her, legs slightly apart, hands on her hips, head cocked to the side, every inch of her oozing arrogance and malice.

Adele feels like she just had been hit between the eyes again: where Enserric stroke the air, the sword stopped as if it hit an invisible barrier and sprung back, yanking her arm painfully to the side, the jolt traveling all the way up to her shoulder. She falls on her knees again and screams in frustration, while the air in the tall chamber is filled with the amused laughter of the drow woman who somehow managed to yank her out of Lith My’athar, from Valen’s arms, from their…

Adele screams again, and pounds the marble with her fist.

“Really, dear, you should stop that,” the Valsharess says. “Like I said, I am now acquainted with your fury well enough… no wonder you managed to get along so well with the drow in Lith My’athar, despite your…theological and ideological differences. Angry little bastards, every single one of them, wanting things they could never get. Like children, really. Is that all you are?”

“Like _hells_.” Adele pants, and sweeps her hair out of her face. She glares at the woman, feeling her lips peel back from her teeth: her god’s fury is filling her now, coursing in her veins like golden fire, and her body coils under her like a lioness ready to pounce. “What do you want?”

“Oh, lovely!” The Valsharess’ laughter reverberates from the vaulted ceiling of her chamber as she throws her head back in amusement. “You really are quite entertaining in your earnestness, you know?” She turns to the side and spreads an arm, gracefully, pointing towards the end of the chamber. “To utterly crush, humiliate and kill you in the most painful way possible, of course. But first, I wanted you to meet the person whose magic brought you here, darling.”

The scent of brimstone, hidden fires and something cloyingly sweet hits Adele like a sledgehammer. She recoils, but cannot take her eyes off the form, huge, monstrous and dark-red, that slowly straightens its enormous shoulders and takes shape at the edge of a large fire-pit, bound and chained by steel and slowly undulating strands of magic symbols swirling in the air.

Wings the size of ship-sails and the color of midnight sky open; two topaz-yellow eyes full of malignant intelligence shine at her from under heavy brows. Cloven hooves, taloned hands, two horns that curl up and then forward like a bull’s and a tail that swings sinuously back and forward…

“Adele Welters.” The voice is deep like the deepest pits of Hell this figure sprang from, edged with sickening sweetness and an accent that, surreally, reminds Adele of some of the highest noble houses of the North. “We meet at last. Allow me to introduce myself as my mistress haven’t done so herself.”

He bows, thick lips curling into a smile and Adele stands helplessly, staring up into those topaz-colored eyes like a mouse in front of a cobra of the great Anauroch.

“I am Mephistopheles, Duke of the Eighth Hell of Baator, and I am _most_ pleased to meet you.”

 

 


	15. Revival

15.

 

_There’s nothing…_

…and then there’s light….

…and air…

…and reason.

Adele sits up, gasping the cool air, slightly smelling of smoke, like it is balm to her lungs, and for a split second she thinks she’s really, _really_ tired of losing consciousness and coming back feeling like she’d been repeatedly slammed against a huge boulder, sliced open from head to toe and tossed about like a dishrag in a busy kitchen.

Then the memories return, and in their wake, panic wells up, rolling like a huge dark cloud, extinguishing everything else, choking her breath and sending her down, down, down on the floor again, hand grasping for something to hold on and body shaking uncontrollably. With the ugly, heaving, sobbing sounds from her throat come the memories, flashing through the black curtain of dread like lightning…

_“I shall_ not _do as you say…” The rumbling voice of the archdevil, topaz-colored eyes gleaming, all-too-long teeth showing in a gleeful smile._

_The utter disbelief on the Valsharess’ face, so haughty and proud a moment before…_

_The feel of being released from a cage, hands curved on Enserric’s hilt, as she is at last free to spring on the drow who haunted her and the Seer’s people… her people…so long…Unthinking, only the moment exists, the knowledge that she’s been given the chance to perform her duty, to unleash the righteous fury of her lord and god on the woman who haunted them for so long…The chance to end it._

_…The feel of hot blood on her hand and her face, the graceful arc of crimson death spurting from the Valsharess’s neck as her sword finally found its mark, unerring…_

_The feeling of victory, pulsing and triumphant; her face, splattered in blood, rising above the crumpled form of the dead drow woman, blade held high, spine erect and proud…_

_…and that laughter again, low, rich, cultured-sounding, and yet utterly chilling in its inhuman glee._

_“You have done well, mortal.”_

“No.” Adele gasps, nails scraping on cold stone, lungs striving for air, mind grasping to stay sane as she remembers…

…remembers…

_“Ever since you found my relic within the Plane of Shadow, you have been bound to me as it has been bound to you. A most fortuitous event, in my eyes.”_

“No!”  Her voice is rising towards the dark ceiling of this place now, like a terrified bird trying to get free from a narrow cage, thrashing around blindly, heart beating faster and faster…

…because it’s there, oh it’s there, and it’s smiling at her with its terrible eyes and rich-red lips and long teeth and she can’t escape, can’t shut it out, and can’t deny the horrible truth of what it’s saying…

_“I am free. A great lord of the devils able to roam amongst the mortals and bring suffering to them as I wish, with not a one who possesses the power to stop me!" That amused laugher again: terrible topaz eyes focusing on her. “And the delicious irony that it was you who’d set me free, my little one. A favored of the Lord of Duty and Righteousness indeed. Perfect.”_

“No…” Adele whimpers, curling up into a little ball, rocking back and forth. She feels the black cloud rolling over her, covering her completely, and that laugh, that horrible laugh ebbs and flows in her head like a tide, like the end of all hope…

_No_. The whisper is tiny, almost like a sigh, almost like the last breath of wind at dawn, when it’s still dark but the first rays of the sun are already trembling just beneath the horizon. It comes with the faint scent of roses, and the roar of a lion underscores the whisper, just beneath the edge of hearing.

_She’s mine. She’s still mine. She never wavered in her Duty, and she was tempered in the fires of compassion._

The roar of the lion gets stronger. Beyond the edge of Adele’s vision, under her closely shut eyelids, dim outlines coalesce: the figure of a huge man, clad in armor, hair wildly streaming about like the mane of a lion, all golden and glorious, bathed in the light of his face.

_Thrice she’s been touched by Love, and thrice she’s been saved by it. She’s not yours, and she never will be._

Adele sits up, still trembling. Her wildly beating heart slows, and her body takes up the traditional meditation position of her order on its own volition. Open palms on thighs, she sits back on her heels, head held high, and her breath is coming slow and even between her slightly parted lips, along with the barely audible syllables of Torm’s Litany of Duty.

Her thoughts are coming into focus, like the colors of a prism, and the thread of connection is _there_ suddenly, springing up from the middle of her mind like water from a rock; her soul is stretching towards her god with the speed of wildfire. Thoughts still tinged with the bitter taste of failure, the dread of what those topaz-colored eyes and long-toothed mouth revealed to her and the desolation of being alone…but steeled with the never-extinguished determination to duty, and to do what needs to be done: towards her god, towards those she protects….towards those she _loves_.

That last one reverberates up and down on the thin golden thread connecting her to the divine, clear as a bell, and brings images into her mind: the smiling face of her parents, the feel of her nieces and nephews’ warm hands; the distant image of a city on white cliffs and golden beaches, the sound of a hundred clear bells ringing above its red-tiled towers and roofs; a fierce, tooth-filled grin of a winged kobold; the gentle violet eyes of a dark-skinned prophet and wide smile of an ex-assassin; and finally, clearer than all of them, the touch of lips on her own and the feel of flame-colored hair brushing her face, with the clean smell of steel armor, distant fires and burnt amber.

_There, my paladin_. The whisper is feather-light again, like that touch on her hair, almost, but not quite there, lighting her heart with a thousand rays of the sun she hasn’t seen in so long. _Stay true, and you’ll never be alone._

The touch lingers, and then fades, bit by bit, like a slowly retreating ray of sun. Adele is left with the warmth of it, spreading from the crown of her head down to the toes of her feet, and finds that she has the strength to stand up at last. She stretches slowly, as if waking from a deep slumber (and, in a way, she really _is_ , she thinks), looks down on herself, and notices with a grimace that the dirt, blood and grime of battle, and all the dents on her armor are gone. Her hands are clean, her hair is no longer sticky and matted… and there’s nothing but a faint itch remaining from the chest wound she’d received in the Valsharess’s throne room from the freed archdevil; the wound that ended her life on the Prime.

_So that’s where I am then. The pocket plane of the Reaper,_ she thinks as she looks around in the cavernous hall.

_And yes, I’ve died._ She checks for her equipment: like a couple of times before, she also notices that everything she had on her body is with her—the baldric of potions, Enserric in his sheath, her side dagger, even her helmet, hanging on its guard chain from her back. _It never gets any better._

_The rest of the stuff is probably in the Pool over there. Just like old times._

_Alive again_. _Time to finish the mission; time to fulfill the Duty._

Her voice isn’t trembling anymore as she calls out.

“Reaper! It is time for you to return me to the land of the living.”

_I sure hope he doesn’t need new books because I don’t think I got any on me…_

“Sojourner.” Adele still takes an involuntary step backwards, like many times before, when the Reaper glides up, out of the gloom of the Gatehouse, and comes to an undulating semi-still in front of her.  She tries to make out anything but distant flickers of flames on the mirror-like surface beneath his hood where his face should be, and shudders when the booming voice rings out. ”You are barred from the Prime Material Plane. If you are about to ask me to return you there, I'm sorry but I cannot comply.”

_Well, that was_ not _what I expected._

“I’m sorry?” she asks, politely, even though she feels the first tremblings of impatience in her limbs, because you’re _always_ polite when you’re a paladin and even more when you talk to someone who’s  ten feet tall, doesn’t have a face and is called The Reaper and the Gatekeeper. “This was _not_ a problem before. What has changed?”

“The devil, Mephistopheles, has commanded me with my True Name. Commands thus given none can disobey. You are to remain here.” The Reaper’s voice just as booming as before, but Adele thinks she can detect just a faint hint of regret in it, and that makes her breath come faster again, remembering those topaz eyes and wide smile…

_Calm, Special Envoy Welters. Calm. Remember to breathe. We’ll assess the damage later: now concentrate on getting information._

“Let me see, then.” Adele taps her chin with a finger, digs into her memories as a novice on power summons, and regards the Reaper with a wan smile. “I do not assume you could give me your True Name out of the goodness of your heart, could you?”

The great head moves slowly from side to side.

“I am sorry, Sojourner. Mephistopheles, of course, bid me to never share it with you.” The Reaper pauses, and bobs up and down before he speaks, a careful edge in his voice that makes him enunciate the words he speaks very clearly and slowly. “But yes, your assumption was correct. If you commanded me with my True Name to send you home, I would have no choice but to comply.”

_Now we’re getting somewhere. One step at a time, but we are. Lord of Duty, this might be a slow march, but I shall see its end, I swear!_

“I see,” she says out loud, and looks around. “So: how one goes about acquiring your True Name? No wait, you probably can’t answer that. Let’s go back a step. Since I am barred from the Prime, where can I go in order to find out of your True Name? I don’t assume I have to spend the rest of my days here with you? I don’t cook, I can’t sing to save my life and let’s not talk about my conversational skills.”

There is a prolonged silence from the Reaper before he points behind him, at a brightly outlined doorway that swirls with white and grey: the only gateway, Adele realizes, in the place that used to be filled with quietly pulsing doors to other locations.

“There is one Gate that was always sealed to you before.” He pauses again, almost as if he didn’t want to say what he says next. “It leads to the surface of Cania and the City of Lost Souls that gather there. It is open to you now.”

“Cania.” Adele almost expected that, really; when she turns it around in her mind in a logical way, the way some of her cousins-in-faith, the followers of Tyr do, it all makes sense in a very, very twisted, wrong and yes, horribly _infernal_ way. She’s actually proud of herself that she can make a joke about it, even if only to herself: but admission and being able to laugh about something are the first steps towards healing, she knows this by now. “That would be… the Eighth Circle of Baator.” She grimaces. “It seems we’ve traded places with Mephistopheles.” She is proud of herself that she can say his name without flinching: even though her teeth clench uncomfortably on each other while doing so.

“Yes, the Eighth Hell, the Frozen Wastes of Cania, the Dreaded Depths of Baator. Whatever name one gives it, it remains the same and, for you, it is a prison.” The Reaper nods, his voice back to its usual expressionless depths and formal cadences.

“ _Thank you_ for the encouragement.” Adele mutters under her breath. “Watch me: I’ll be home before it gets to be Midwinter. Otherwise my mother will slay me,” she adds, wincing as she remembers the last time she missed the family gathering.

“There is no such thing as home for one such as you.” The Reaper shakes his head, and now there’s a definite sadness in his voice. “You must forget what you knew of the Prime Material for you are never going back.”

“That’s an _absolutely_ rotten attitude to have.” Adele realizes she was pacing up and down in front of the great pool of quiet water that resided in the hall ever since first time she saw it, and stops, hands on her hips. _Good going, Special Envoy Welters: keep it up_. _One step at a time_. “All I have to do is to get out there, find your True Name, get back to the Prime and send Mephistopheles back to where he came from. See? Clearly defined objectives; now I just need a plan.”

She rubs her hands together: somehow there’s cold seeping in from that swirling doorway.

_And now: the hard part._

 “So: since it would be a bit tedious to do it alone…” she hesitates, fear somehow creeping back to her heart, as if she knew the answer but doesn’t want to face it, “could you tell me where my companions are? And _don’t_ say they are dead, please… we both know how _that_ works here.”

“Indeed.” The Reaper makes a sound that from anyone else might be a faint chuckle. “A transitional state, as we know… but yes. Undeniably, they are dead.”

Adele swallows again; and tries to remain coolly collected, as it befits a paladin even when what she really wants is scream her rage to the heavens.

_Definitely the hard way, then. Onward, Special Envoy Welters, ever onward._

“I truly hate that I need to drag everything out of you with a plier.” She looks the Reaper up and down with narrowed eyes. “I know you can reach them the way you plucked me out of the infinity of planes so many times, because the people I adventure with are, as you so cryptically but succinctly like to say, ‘bound to me’. “ She remembers an earlier time, the same place, of her arguing fiercely about Deekin with the Reaper. “So let’s cut to the chase and if you would,” she slows down and remembers that she is supposed to be polite, “ _please_ summon them to aid me one more time in this quest.”

_Please, Lord, please tell me it is possible. Please. Otherwise, I am not sure I can do this. You said thrice… you said thrice was I touched by love: don’t let this end just like the other two times. Please._

The Reaper does that odd undulating bob in the air that always makes her slightly disoriented, and then tilts his cowled head to the side.

“They will agree to come or not, each according to their own wishes and desire, you know this? I cannot compel them.”

Adele’s nod is decidedly impatient; and as the Reaper asks his next question “ _Who shall I summon, then_?” she doesn’t even wait for him to finish. The name springs to her lips with such force that she sways, eyes closed to stop the sudden desire to cry, and she never prayed so hard in her life.

“Valen. Valen Shadowbreath.”

_First there’s nothing…_

…then there’s a stir in air, the smallest of sounds, as if something, nay, someone took a first breath after a long silence…

Then there’s… _him_. Out of the shadows of the gatehouse, Valen coalesces like a tall, imposing verdant statue, all in armor.  Slightly bent shoulders, erect spine, wildly lashing tail; forehead furrowed in irritation, as if he’s objecting to being summoned back.

So much like countless times before, and yet she stares as if she sees him for the first time, breathless and eyes tingling with tears. Adele clasps her hands on her mouth as a triumphant cry wants to escape from her chest, fierce and joyous, like the call of a falcon on a clear morning over tall mountains.

_He’s alive! He’s here! Oh, sweet lord of the lion and the white rose, thanks be to you!_

He appeared facing the Reaper, so he spots him first.

“The dark one.” His shoulders sag and there’s a deep sigh from him. “I should have known. Am I serving you now, then?”

“Gods, I hope not.” There; she did it again _. I really have to control my mouth_ , Adele thinks fleetingly, but…

He doesn’t touch her. He just spins, lightning-fast, one hand on Devil’s Bane’s handle by his side: and his face flickers with so many emotions it’s almost painful to see.

“He said he killed you.” His voice is flat. “The archdevil. Mephistopheles. He said he crushed your heart in your chest and left you on the floor of the Valsharess’ fortress to rot. He…” Adele can see his throat moving as he swallows, skin even paler than usually above his green gorget. “He laughed and swatted Deekin down like a fly; kicked Nathyrra into a wall, and…” he shrugs, almost absently, “…eventually he killed me too. After I bled him a little, anyway.”

There is the faintest flicker of a smile on his face, and the hard-etched features soften. One hand reaches forward to trace Adele’s profile with slightly trembling fingers: she doesn’t dare to move as Valen’s palm finally cups her cheek with infinite gentleness.

“I would _very_ much like to believe I am not merely having a pleasant dream in the afterlife; or else that this isn’t some kind of exquisitely planned torment Mephistopheles decided to inflict upon me for actually wounding him,” he continues in the same inflectionless voice, and Adele shudders as she sees the storm raging in his clear blue eyes, so at odds with the tone of his words. “It would be a very, very good thing, my lady.”

“Am I supposed to say something that convinces you I am real?” Adele finally finds her own voice; it is _very_ hard to just stand there and not to move forward to embrace him, _but_ , she thinks with the calculating mind of the Special Errant Envoy Plenipotentiary, _that’s exactly what a dream—or nightmare- would do now, right?_ “Fine: let me see… I could kill for a ham sandwich right now.” She sees Valen rock a bit back on his heels, and some life return to his eyes. _A-ha, he really didn’t expect that one_ , she thinks, and continues, hurriedly. “A _really_ greasy one that you can only make standing in your parents’ kitchen late at night, when everyone else is sleeping but you _absolutely_ must go and grope around blindly without a light to find that heel of bread under the checkered cloth in the breadbox and wipe it across the pan to sop up a bunch of grease and tear a chunk of ham off with your bare hands and put it on top and eat the whole thing standing there, hoping no one heard you bumbling about and brings down a candle from upstairs to catch you in the act. I _could_ kill for that; but…” and her voice shakes just a little bit because _gods, this is_ _truth_ ,”… a week locked in the best room of the Yawning Portal Inn in Waterdeep with you would also do nicely. I think.”

“My lady tries to choose between me and a ham sandwich.” The tiefling – _her tiefling_ , _her very much alive tiefling,_ she thinks giddily—closes his eyes for a second. “I am not sure if I should be flattered or insulted.”

“ _Definitely_ flattered.” Adele says, deadpanning and putting up everything on one bet. “My mother’s baked ham is the best in Tantras, you know.”

“It’s _really_ you then.” Valen nods, almost tentatively, but his hand moves from Adele’s cheek to her shoulder and she feels him dig his fingers in, as if he’s still not quite sure she’s corporeal… “No one else across the Planes would compare me to… baked ham.”

“I will _not_ make the obvious soldier-jokes about you being hot and red right now, if you are fine with that.” Adele whispers, and fierce joy ripples through her as he bursts out in surprised laughter.

_Gods, I love his laughter_ , she thinks as she’s finally enfolded in his embrace, so tight and so strong that she can barely breathe. _I love his hair_ , she thinks as she threads her gloved fingers through the red locks and pulls his head down to finally kiss. _I love how his lips fit over mine so well, and the way his breath hitches on the second syllable of my name_. _He came through archdevil and otherworld to be with me and I don’t ever want to be separated from him again._

_Because by Lord Torm, I think I love him._


	16. A Lucky Woman

**16.**

**A/N: M rating for this chapter is… definitely justified for M rated things happening in the dark.**

 

Valen stares.

“All right,” he says slowly, looking around. “So you and Deekin basically used this as a… what do you call it on the Prime anyway?” He sweeps his hand on an arch, encompassing the little room crammed full of things. “A place full of…things just in case’?”

“Why, what do _you_ call it where you come from?” Adele smiles.  His reaction to seeing the place, almost undetectable at one side of the great hall of the gatehouse is something to behold indeed. “We found it the first time looking around here and Deekin said, ‘Boss, wow, good place to store stuff even Deekin can’t squeeze into Bag of Holding’. So we did. Store things, I mean.”

_It’s not that I don’t want to continue kissing him_ , she thinks while looking at Valen as he surveys the room. _I very much do, in fact. It’s just that there is this small matter of a Tormish paladin and a tanar’ri tiefling in Hell we need to solve somehow…_

_Also, doing all the things I really want to do while and after kissing him in front of the Reaper is just a little bit unappealing. And then I was putting it mildly._

“Yes indeed, you stored things.” Valen steps around something _very_ carefully that, at first  sight, looks like a haphazard pile made of half a dozen wooden staves, some longer, some shorter. “I’m afraid to ask what’s here that could _not_ be used to maim, harm, disintegrate or kill.” He flashes a grin. “And it’s called a ‘bolthole’ in Sigil, berk.”

“Berk?” Adele lifts an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“Prime-dwellers in Planar-land.” Valen bends down to examine a small chest, full of gems. “Clueless wanderers, greenhorns, easy marks. No matter how experienced or rich you might be on the Prime, when you first enter Sigil, you are nothing but that.” He whistles between his teeth, lifting out a diamond almost the size of his fist. “Although _this_ one might ease your way up from berk status rather fast.”

“I shall keep that in mind.” Adele nods, and edges around the pile of staves just as carefully as Valen did. She knows why they are there: if anyone barges in, unaware of that particular defense line and stumbles on them in the dark, without having, for instance, a candle, a lamp or a torch, the staves will discharge their magical contents and disintegrate practically everything in the room. _Deekin was insanely proud of that one_ , she remembers. “Let me see: what is here that is _not_ lethal? Well, if I were a Tyrran, I could have carefully categorized everything in triplicates and would start to argue that, contrary to what some might believe, indeed everything here could be used for violent means.” She shrugs. “But I am not one of my elder brethren, however much our deities stand side-by-side in the Triad, and…” She notices the expression on Valen’s face and stops. “Oh, my apologies.  Am I boring you with theology, general?”

“Well, let me see.” Valen rolls his shoulders under the wide green pauldrons. “It has been some time since a lord of the Hells has been free in your world, and I’m afraid this should rapidly become very interesting… in a horrid, terrifying, 'get me out of here' kind of way, I mean. I’m very well aware that we should be discussing further implications of that fact and that, as you so succinctly put it earlier, ‘we are in the Hells’.” He lifts a hand. “And we shall, and soon… not merely because it affects both of us, but as it will affect those whom you are, no doubt, intent on summoning back the same way you did to me.” His stern and somewhat tense visage softens then, and adds. “On the other hand, this is the first time you and I have been truly alone since what seems to be forever and that merits some time to…” and his cheeks slightly color, “…erm, savor it.”

“Savor.” Adele rolls the world around in her mouth and edges closer to him, rather aware that there is only so much space to move in the cramped little room. “That’s a very... you-like way to put it.” She tilts her head towards a reasonably clutter-free corner where Deekin and her set up a little sleeping nest with a pile of blankets and pillows,  and a box of firewood and tinder next to it for emergencies. There are also two small camp stools and another bag with dry cured meat and hard biscuits in a tin as food rations, to complete the ‘we might have to spend some time here to hide and stock up’ line of thought. “So: sit and talk?”

“Sit and talk.” Valen looks at her with raised eyebrows. “Do forgive me for even asking, my lady, but we could have ‘sat and talked’ out there by that charming pool and your somewhat taciturn and lately unhelpful friend whose hospitality we currently enjoy. Are we taking inventory of the… supplies here, or…?”

Adele grins. She can’t help it: despite the fact that they do have a lot of things to discuss and plan, Valen, of course, is right.

_Indeed, sitting and talking is the very last thing on my mind right now_.

“Imp.” She chuffs, wrinkling her nose, and makes herself comfortable on one of the stools in the corner, stretching her legs in front of her. _But two can play that game, my general_. “Actually, what I had in mind, believe or not, is to get out of armor for a while. I spent the past day in this,” she raps a knuckle at her breastplate, “fought in it, got knocked about in it, got teleported in it, fought again, got stabbed in the chest in spite of it, got killed and teleported and resurrected again … all without food _or_ the chance to remove it, although getting the dents and stain removed during resurrection was nice. Much as the image of a paladin is that of an all-metal-clad warrior of stout heart and unshakeable will, there is a limit, I assure you.” She leans forward and starts unlacing her gauntlets. “And although I am also aware that time here in the Gatehouse here flows differently from how we normally perceive it, as far as I am concerned, I was wearing this armor for _way_ too long, and aim to get all of it off at least for a while.”

“And here I was, trying to figure out a subtle yet irresistible way to get you out of the tin can.” Valen sighs after a brief silence, punctuated by two _clinks_ as Adele is done with her gauntlets and starts on her bracers. “Are you saying I should just wait and you’d do it anyway?” He rubs his chin. “Wait a minute, you’re already doing it. I _like_ this plan.”

 Adele snorts.

“I make you a deal. Help me with the backplate, I help you with yours, and I show you where I put the secret stash of food that doesn’t taste like sawdust.” She wiggles her eyebrows as the bracers join the gauntlets. “Can it get better than that?”

“You _really_ are quite obsessed with food, you know? Especially for a paladin,” Valen says with a content sigh, lowers himself on the other stool and starts to fiddle with his bootlaces. “Me, on the other hand… I’m an old soldier. When _I_ get a break, all I want is sleep.” He looks at Adele, whose features suddenly reflect utter disappointment, and lifts a finger, triumphantly. “Ha! I knew that would get you.” He leans forward and pokes at her side with the same finger. “I win.”

“Watch that finger, general, I am famously unreliable when tickled.” Adele sniffs. Although the speed with which they are, yet again, easing back to an ‘ages-old war comrades’ mood, surprises her a little bit, it isn’t exactly uncomfortable. On the contrary; it makes things clearer. _Much clearer_.

_Sweet Lord of Duty, I don’t even remember when I felt this comfortable with someone._

“So: I was wondering.” Valen says, clearing his throat. He is watching her unbuckling her greaves, pauldrons and rerebraces and stacking them with neat military precision next to the little chest she stored some armor polish at an earlier trip ‘just in case’. “Not that I am not enjoying the view from here, you understand, but you said something about me helping? You know, those buckles on the backplate that like to stick?” he adds, helpfully, as Adele lifts her head and stares at him.

“Ah-ha. You remembered that little accident at the island of the Maker, I see.” Valen nods, with little sparkles dancing in his eyes, and smiling slowly: Adele grits her teeth. “You almost didn’t get that armor on in time, my dear paladin, if I recall correctly. Something about not properly greasing the leather straps when cleaning them the last time, and…”

“Shut up, general.” Adele growls, because really, there is only so much of this she can stand. “The torture of special envoys is usually frowned upon by civilized people.” Unburdened almost fully from her armor, she slides off her stool, almost in time with Valen getting on his feet.

Almost, but not quite.

“ _Still_ faster than you,” he whispers, threading his fingers through her hair to turn her face upwards, and dipping his head so his lips are almost, but not quite on hers. “My lady, we need to work on your agility training, I’m afraid.”

“You wish to start…now?” Adele inquires in a somewhat shaky voice; Valen’s fingers are now working on those backplate buckles, and they are very fast and efficient, indeed.

“Not necessarily.” The last pieces of her plates fall on the floor with a resounding clang. “Although it seems to me that I am still a bit… overdressed for the occasion.”

Adele snorts. Even with the plate bits off, she is wearing her mail hauberk, the padded gambeson underneath, the jerkin to which her leg armor was pointed… but yes, compared to Valen’s intricate overlocking armor, bearing the unmistakable signs of being made in a fine drow workshop…

“We can’t have that now, can we?” she murmurs, tugging his head down for another long and involved kiss, during which, somehow, her gambeson gets unbuttoned. “ _How_ did you do that, anyway?” she asks, somewhat bewildered between further kisses, and Valen laughs.

“I, perhaps, neglected to mention of a less savory chapter of my youth spent as a thief on the streets of Sigil?”

“Indeed you did.” Adele says drily, her own fingers deciphering the intricacies of the catches on Valen’s armor. “That, of course, would explain the times when you were able to open those locked doors without bashing them in various places and ….there!” she adds triumphantly as yet another pauldron joins the other pieces on the floor.

“One of the finest urchin pickpockets in the Hive.” Valen breathes into that little space between her neck and collarbone, making Adele’s mind going very happily blank for a second. Especially when he continues, voice slow and low. “But I, of course, retain no skills from that time. Misspent youth and all that.”

“Clearly you require careful re-examination of youthful… transgressions.” Adele inhales sharply: Valen somehow managed to unbuckle the belt holding her hauberk up and the weight is rather sudden on her shoulders and hips. “And I need to get this off,” she adds, reluctantly stepping back. “Now.”

She is glad her hair remained short: the hauberk slides easily over her head without catching—she’d done this countless times, but, unlike then, she doesn’t even bother to pick it up and stow it carefully. She straightens, runs her fingers through her locks and grins up at Valen…

…and her breath catches as she sees the expression on his face, watching her. She knows that he’s far older and infinitely more experienced, and part of her is terrified to her core of the fact that this man, this outsider, this absolutely unstoppable soldier of the Blood War, defender of a renegade drow city and self-professed good man can look at her like _that_.

_Because really, what have I done to deserve it?_

“Valen?” she asks haltingly, not quite believing what her eyes are clearly telling her. “What is it?”

“I’m just…” he starts, then shakes his head almost angrily and steps close again, to simply take her hand and twine their fingers together. “I’m just realizing that there’s something I need to get off my chest because…” he breaks off again and swallows.

“It’s all right.” Adele whispers, her heart beating really, really fast. “I can take it.”

“Of that I have no doubts as of late, my lady.” A little mirth sneaks back into his voice and Adele feels lost again as he steps even closer and cradles her face between his palms. His skin is almost feverishly warm. “You do know that I’ll have… difficulties here, right? A quarter-demon in the Hells?” Adele nods. “I might become… unpredictable, excessively violent, even to the point of not recognizing you but seeing you as…someone I must, by the command of my blood, eliminate.” His face is very serious now: Adele looks into his eyes, clear and blue and infinitely sad. “You must understand that I do not wish to do that, that it would never happen under regular circumstances, and that I will fight it with every fiber of my being. My Taint has, for the lack of a better expression, has gotten used to your aura by now. You actually have a soothing effect on it, believe or not; there was a reason I started to feel more and more comfortable in your company as time went by, besides merely…enjoying it. I do not presume to insult you by not trusting you to understand the dangers of… getting involved with a tiefling ex-soldier of the Blood Wars. However…” and one of his hands tucks a stray golden lock behind her ear with slow tenderness. “You need to also understand something. Until you can fulfill your vow you made to help me to find a way to eliminate the Taint, I can… never fully let go when I am with you.” His eyes search her face for an answer. “I will always have to hold back just a little bit, always have to be in control, always…”

“I understand, Valen.” Adele surprises even herself how steady her voice is. “I’m no longer an eighteen-year old novice with the bouncy ponytail who was dazzled by the attention of the handsome knight in dazzling armor and saw challenges in every corner, so secure in her insecurity that she was willing to even defy the rules of her order to seek what she thought was love. I might not have your experience, but I’ve seen and done things myself these past years that made me at least start to understand the past errors of my ways and how to mend them. We are truly what we do when it counts.” She turns her head slightly and breathes a kiss into Valen’s palm. “And I trust you, with everything I have.”

Valen bows his head, and lets out a long, shaky sigh. When he looks back up, his eyes are even brighter than they were.

“Thank you,” he says hoarsely, and swallows. “My… life has been one of nothing but rage and despair, for a very long time. The most I ever wanted to aspire to after coming to the Prime and joining the Seer was gaining my humanity.” One of his hands gently lifts Adele’s chin. “But now… now I believe there’s even something greater I should strive for,” he says and Adele suddenly remembers that night in the Seer’s Garden, when he almost said something about hoping that one day…

“I love you, my lady.” Valen says into the absolute silence between them, a hair’s breadth from her lips. “With all of my heart.”

_I should stop thinking now, because things just got so much more simple_ , it flutters through Adele’s mind hazily; but then she realizes that she really, _really_ should say something at this point as just standing there staring at Valen with her mouth hanging open is _probably_ not the best answer…

“Gods,” she chokes out and clears her throat; it feels like the weight of a mountain just got lifted off her shoulders and she grins so widely her mouth aches. “I’m…this is good.” She presses her lips hard against Valen’s before she speaks again. “Very good. I mean… this sounds absolutely idiotic to you most likely, but you had to say it first because…” She stops again, looking at Valen’s bewildered face and her eyes widen. “Oh. Of course. I’m an idiot, you don’t know about the code regulations, how would you, I mean, you’re not from the Prime and even if you were,  those are not exactly common knowledge and…I am babbling, am I not?”

“Indeed.” Valen says drily, then tilts his head to the side. “Before you explain that, though… just so that I am not making an absolute idiot of myself: are you… reciprocating?”

“Dear Sune, goddess of love, of course I am.” Adele says quickly and winds her arms about his neck. “And you have no idea how good it is to finally being able to say it.” She traces a finger across Valen’s cheekbones, up to the side of his face, his elegantly upswept ears. “I love you too, tiefling mine.”

“Stop that.” Valen grabs her finger and kisses it. “I’m enjoying it too much. You are… distracting, and dangerous and the most amazing woman I’ve ever encountered.”

_Unfair_ , Adele thinks, biting her lip as she realizes that Valen somehow managed to loosen the laces of her jerkin and his nimble fingers are stealing under the hem of her shirt to touch bare skin.

“Now tell me all about this code regulation thing you were talking about,” he orders, on that command voice that makes her to obey almost unselfconsciously.

“Right.” She feels just a little bit dizzy, but deems it permissible, considering the circumstances. “About that… You know I’m a paladin, right?”

“I am… somewhat aware of that fact, yes.” Valen murmurs, his lips tracing a path on her skin from neck to just behind her earlobe. “Go on.”

_Ah, so this is how we are playing it_ … Adele’s mind is groping for the words because Lord, _that feels really, really good_.

“So we are really… persuasive. Charismatic. Looking good in plate armor, always polite, excellent with words, usually impeccably groomed…”

“Usually.” There’s undeniable snicker in Valen’s voice, and Adele resists the urge to point out that he’s still mostly in armor while she… well, she is not quite sure what to call her present state of undress, but armored it most decidedly _isn’t_. “Keep talking,” he orders her again, mapping a path from her ear down her neck to her collarbone, while...

_Dear sweet Ilmater’s mercy… how many hands does he… Oh._ Oh _. Is that his_ tail _?_

“If you don’t stop that right now, I’ll knee you, and it _will_ hurt,” she warns, with as much sternness as the present situation allows her. “You’re wearing way too much metal and despite what you might have heard about paladins, we do _not_ care for armor chafing in sensitive places. You do not want me to pounce you just yet.”

“Delicate flower, aren’t we?” Valen chuffs, but arrests his hands and steps back obligingly, bowing a little at the waist.  “Your wish is my command, my lady. If you would finish your explanation, I, in the meantime,  shall make sure that there’s…” and his eyes now positively smolder looking her up and down, “…no _chafing_.”

And he’s as good as his word, too. Adele swallows: she’s never seen anyone getting rid of armor so fast. Of course, it helps that the drow design’s interlocking plates and different catches make it a much less cumbersome exercise than human armor.

“So what paladins can’t do at all is to just jump around declaring everlasting love to their… interests,” she starts speaking quickly, because how unseemly it would be if she’d started to _drool_. Drow armor, the finest of which was awarded to Lith My’athar’s general, has no underpadding as humans define it, and definitely not in several layers. What it does have under are sleek, tight black… _things_ (calling them shirt or trews or whatever else is simply inadequate), made of fine spider-silk that cling to the skin and show every muscle’s definition to the finest detail. She, of course, knew this… theoretically, but this now is more… personal, and for all that she’s not exactly inexperienced, Adele’s mouth suddenly goes terribly dry.

_All right, this is a very serious part of the conversation, so get your mind back to it. And yes, it’s definitely hot in here._

 “We can’t lie, obviously, and there are other signs of showing we’re interested, but…” she pauses for a second to ignore Valen’s imperious look, “really, since declaring our love first might be construed as unduly pressure, we’re instructed to hold off until we hear it first from the ah, other party.” She blushes a bit. “And before you ask, no, since I only ever had… experiences with other paladins, I hardly could…”

“What a _fascinating_ world you holy warriors have.” Valen holds out his arms. “There, see? No metal. Can I come closer now?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Adele laughs a bit shakily as Valen’s arms enfold her, and she sniffs a bit into his shoulder. “Forgive me?”

“Blazes and demonfires, Lady, what for?” he asks, bewilderment in his voice. “For obeying your code? For making sure I wasn’t some raging monster ready to rampage through the Planes as part of a nefariously sophisticated plan of evil? For having an actual life before you’ve met me?” His lips brush her hair feather-light. “You love me. I love you. For this quarter-demon, trying to stay sane and hoping only for a life that doesn’t include constant bloodshed, it is more than he could ever hope for. Everything else, we can work with.”

“Even with…” Adele swallows, “me dragging you to the Hells to try and contain an archdevil whom I let loose on the Prime myself?”

“Adele, love, listen.” Her heart skips a beat upon hearing him call her ‘love’ the first time as he draws her down gently but with strong hands to sit on the pile of blankets in the corner and holds her by the shoulders so he can look her in the eye. “You’re a bloody paladin: holy light against all evil, shining example of goodness… and, in addition to that, you’re also the Seer’s Savior, the warrior who came to save Lith My’athar from the Valsharess. You fought the person who threatened to eliminate an entire city and countless lives, and you _killed_ her. What were you supposed to do, open your arms and say ‘ _sorry, can’t do it, the big red devil’s bindings will break and he will be free’_? Let _them_ kill _you_ instead?”

“It’s worse than that, Valen.” Adele wipes at her eyes and nose, angry at letting herself even that much weakness. “It turns out that the Reaper’s Relic was nothing but an actual part of Mephistopheles himself; that through it, he and I were bound well before I even knew of the Valsharess’ existence. That was the loophole that enabled him to defeat the Valsharess’s commands at the end—that he wasn’t quite in the summoning circle fully, and that’s what landed me here.” She exhales forcefully. “And you, by extension.”

“I’ve fought devils for a long time, Adele. Longer than you’ve been alive, I told you that already: and I am very, very good at it. It’s not my pride, it’s facts. You had to summon me back; apart from the selfish considerations of wanting me alive, you’re a good enough leader to know that with me by your side you have a true chance fulfilling this quest and find a way out of here.” He shakes his head. “As long as I can contain myself not to get lost in my blood-rage and battle-lust, I am yours to command, in this life and beyond.” One of his thumbs wipe gently at Adele’s face where a tear has fallen. “And with you, I feel I can do anything.”

“I am overcomplicating this, right?” Adele whispers, but she smiles now. “I’m sorry, I…”

“ _One_ more apology, lady,” Valen says sternly, one hand sliding to the nape of her neck and Adele suddenly can’t move at all, “and I shall not do what I am very much ready to do. Is that clear?”

“Yessir.” It comes out more of a mumble than an acknowledgement, but the distinction becomes pretty much a moot point very rapidly after that.

_Apparently I’m still wearing too much clothing_ , Adele thinks at a point, but only because although she loses the leather jerkin spectacularly fast, her shirt gets stuck halfway and she ends up with her hands awkwardly but definitely tied behind her in a tangle of soft silk delicately embroidered by the Seer’s handmaidens in lilac and silver. It seems a lifetime since she donned that, back in her room on the upper floor of the temple, even though technically it was less than a day ago.

“Oh, I _like_ that.” Valen whispers into her ear, not sounding _at all_ like a general right now and Adele’s mind snaps back from past memories to the sensation of his teeth nibbling on her earlobe very, very slowly and gently. “Good shirt. We’ll keep it just the way it is, I think.”

“But I… I can’t move my arms.” Adele points out, somewhat frustrated but with perfect logic: she finally found the hem of Valen’s shirt a few seconds ago and was _very_ much looking forward to return the favor of removing it. “How am I supposed to…you know, to _touch_ you now? Oh…” she adds, feebly, as Valen throws a look at her that one can only describe as ‘ _well, yes’._ “You mean that was… kind of the point?”

“Paladins.” Valen shakes his head. “I see now: this is not so much about speed training, but more like… relaxation, patience and the value of appreciating the slower things in life?” he offers, head cocked to one side. “Hmm. Well, _you’d_ probably say it like that,” he adds, as he almost absentmindedly trails a finger down with exquisite slowness from Adele’s neck down to her navel, and the only thing she can do is glare and bite her lip, because no, she _still_ can’t move those arms, and actually, when it all boils down to it, why _should_ she?

“Me, on the other hand,” Valen continues, tracing complicated patterns on her abdomen with one hand, while leaning on his elbow right next to her, their bodies almost, but not quite touching, “…well, I am not really a man of _words_.”

“Fine.” Adele measures between her teeth, practically seething. “You win. Happy? Now _let me up_.”

“I won?” Valen opens his eyes wide and makes a rather unsuccessful attempt at looking innocent. “Does that mean you yield?”

“Wasn’t aware this was an…” and she tilts her head, smiling slowly because gods, yes, she _finally_ figured this one out, “…another sparring match.” She stretches, arms above her head, back arching, and watches Valen’s eyes darken with desire. “Is it, or are you open for… negotiations?”

“I think you should stop talking…right…about…now.” Valen’s voice is low, and his mouth covers her in a way that leaves no doubt in her: there will be no further discussions on the subject.

Not that she really minds, of course. It has, indeed been a long time, but she’d never felt, ever since her first time, so eagerly about getting rid of the last pieces of clothing and just getting lost in the sensation of bare skin against bare skin.  There _is_ an awkward moment with her rather tight breast-binding cloth, which incites some colorful words of profanity from Valen, but Adele vetoes the suggestion of using a dagger on it (‘ _come on, this is my only pair, where would I get one in the Hells_?’) most firmly.

“And since my hands are still bound…” she says, arching her back just a little bit again, and giving him that look that, by now she knows, really has an effect on him, “…it has to be all you who’s doing the heavy lifting here.”

“Work, work, work.”  There’s a grin on his face that makes Adele tingle in all the right places, and his fingers make quick work of the cloth. “You’re, of course, a lucky woman.”

And Adele _does_ learn, in the next hour or so, very thoroughly, that this, in fact, completely and utterly true.

 


	17. This Is Right

**Author’s Note:**

**Happy New Year, y’all, and thanks for your patience while I lingered over repeated bouts of holiday feastings and put on at least five pounds during the holidays (cream puffs and tiramisu, I’m looking at you; and don’t you think I won’t be the minstrel of your incredible powers in the Epilogue of this fic, because payback is a b*tch). Ahem.**

**In other news, this chapter is also M-rated, just in case anyone wonders, for mature subject matters.**

Her fingers still remember the shape of Cornelyan’s collarbones and the lush swell of his upper lip, but the memory of his weight on her, the slight pressure of his hipbone as he shifted, and how he sighed her name into her shoulder quietly so no one hears them is fading fast. She finds that she does not mind at all, though; what replaced them today, she suspects, will be more than enough to keep her warm in the dark wastes of Hell. 

Valen is very warm, all corded muscle and smooth skin, and Adele realizes that this is actually something she’s never done in her life: lying entwined with a man, lost in the sensations of naked skin sliding against naked skin. Her trysts with Cordelyan were almost always hurried, wrought with the possibility of discovery: there’s hardly any opportunity to frolic naked between the great shelves of the Tantras library or in some corner of a disused hall. The only time they actually made love in a bed (their second time, together, in fact) was just as quick and frenzied as their first, when they barely had opened up their clothes: they didn’t even dare to light a candle because they were not exactly supposed to be in that room anyway.

With Valen, though…

“Did I hurt you?”

“Gods, why are you even _asking_ such things…?” she asks, startled. “I don’t break that easy, Valen, and you can’t just…” she chuffs, but quiets down as he takes her face between his hands.

“My love.” Her heart gives a slow ‘thud’ at him calling her that, and she knows it will be just like that for the rest of her life. “Forgive me, but given how on one unfortunate occasion I almost ripped your throat out, and since…” Adele notices with some amusement how his cheeks color faintly, “…since tieflings are…well, generously proportioned, I think it’s prudent to… ascertain that no harm was done.  Even though I am fairly sure I took it… as slow as possible. Khm.” He clears his throat. “Also, you were quite loud, and at some point I just wasn’t sure if it was, you know…”

“Sweet Sune’s ribbons, Valen.” Now it’s her turn to blush a bit, and bites her lips. “Very well, now that we’re both in full command of our facilities, regained our breaths and can think clearly…wait a minute, are you trying to have an _after-action-briefing_ with me?” She stares at him, incredulously, at the slowly spreading joyous grin on his face, and battles the urge to elbow him very, very firmly.

“Far be from it.” Valen whispers as he bends slowly over one breast, hands trailing down at her side, and Adele’s mind goes all-blank for a second. “I merely wanted to be sure you were ready for the next course.”

…

 _“_ Your skin glows in candlelight, did you know that?”

“Absolutely not.”

“It does, too. Shall I take it as a definite proof that all paladins’ do…or is it just your unique feature?”

“And next you’ll come up with the theory that it’s merely an adverse reaction to your aura by mine and become all… broody and stuff again.”

“’And stuff’. There it is again. The eloquence of the holy warrior at full display. Combined with the insinuation that I can be anything but happy in my lady’s presence.”

“Whoa. Where did you learn the courtly manners, anyway?”

“Oh, that’s pretty. When you blush, you really _do_ blush.”

“Shut up, general. Given who has the fairer skin, that’s really a remark that requires payment. C’mere.”

She had no idea they had this many candles stowed in this place, but apparently at some point either her or Deekin thought they could use about an armload of it and included them with the supplies it the room. With the vaguely hazy mind of someone really in need of some sleep but who only got little snatches, Adele tries to remember when or how they got lit, or if it was her or Valen finding them, or…

Not that it matters, really. She knows it will be time soon, to get ready, to go out there, to deal with Big Things, and summon Deekin and Nathyrra back, and make Plans Against Evil and be Special Errant Envoy Plenipotentiary Welters again.

But not yet.

Not quite yet.

Valen grins up at her as she twists her hips and straddles him.

“What can I say? I am yours to command.”

…

She has never considered herself particularly attractive or desirable, even though, or precisely because, of what happened in the last year of her being a novice. She remembers how this particular subject was covered in her training with great care and precision, but with clinical detachment.

 _Different people react differently to the life of constant war and fight_ , she hears the voice from the distance of years. _Amongst women warriors, there are those who channel all energies they would normally spend on the more physical aspects of love into their fights and battles, and do not even feel the need for anything else—until the right one comes along._

And it was true, too. After Cornelyan, she simply shut that part of hers down. There was the mission, then the next one, then the next… there were superiors and subordinates and allies; and there were the occasional companions after a mission, back at Tantras, once or twice, always her fellow paladins and never lasting more than that one time. She always viewed those as more of a completion of _sharing_ than anything else: no doubt it was, judging from her studies in that direction, useful for tension relieving and renewing bonds of companionship for them as well.

 _This is as different from those as_ … _as a country meal, hearty and satisfying but nothing spectacular, from that ten-course Midwinter feast at your parents’ house when the food just keeps coming and coming, each course better and better, everyone insisting that you must have seconds, and thirds, and…_

She takes a deep breath, remembering certain seconds and thirds of the past hour that had nothing to do with food whatsoever.

Well. She’s by no means a blushing maiden… Losing one’s virginity against a bookshelf in the library tends to cure that rather fast, and even if that wasn’t the case, paladin training _does_ include a crash course in the most basic principles of what happens between two consenting adults in the dark. She is a warrior of the True One, a soldier in the eternal struggle between good and evil, vastly more traveled and experienced than most of her fellow paladins of the same age…

 _And this fearsome warrior of Good right now would really, really like to be back at that inn in Waterdeep, under about six fur blankets, instead of getting ready to face the horrors of the Eighth Plane of the Hells, thank you very much,_ she thinks as she burrows even closer to the warm, corded body coiled around her.

“My lady is deep in thoughts,” she hears the lazy murmur in her ears. A pause. “Perhaps it means we have not sufficiently advanced your studies in relaxation and patience?”

“Any more and I’m a melted puddle of goo.” She trails her hand down his spine, smiling. “Mmm. I could really, really get used to this. You make an excellent blanket, by the way.”

“My lady says the sweetest things.” Valen rolls to his side and leans on one elbow, blue eyes searching her face. “And you’re really bad about changing the subject. Must be one of those paladin things. Time to talk, then?”

“As I hardly have the strength to do anything else…” Adele grins. “But no, you do have the right of it. As much as I wish there was a handy permanent Time Stop cast on this moment here, and as much as technically the Gatehouse isn’t subject to the ebb and flow of Prime time, we do need to start making some preparations for the inevitable.”

“Venturing forth to brave the icy winds of Cania.” Valen shudders. “I’ve spent too much time with your kobold… I speak like I was in one of his horrible epic songs.”

“Doesn’t change the reality of it.” Adele fishes for a blanket and pulls it around her shoulder as she sits up, reluctantly. “Have you…” she hesitates for a second, “…you know, been here before?”

“Yes.” Valen nods. “In Baator, and, specifically in Cania as well. With troops, increasing in size as the years passed by. I told you I am very good at killing devils; my master eventually allowed me to lead large contingents of his soldiers independent of his command when he had to operate somewhere else.”

“So what …what is it like?”  She watches his profile in the flickering candlelight; there are memories fluttering through his features too fast for her to interpret. “My knowledge is purely academic, I’m afraid and every little bit helps.”

“Back to business, then, hmm? Fine, let’s… pool our resources.” Adele allows him to pull her against him until her back is against his chest and his chin rests on the top of her head. “Cania, is, first and foremost, cold, my lady. One of the two cold layers of Baator, it is a land of icy wastes, almost constant snowfall, winds that can flash-freeze those who are caught unawares as they scream down from the mountain ridge the circles the central plains. Home to giant ice wolves, trolls and other monsters adapted to its climate… and then I didn’t even mention the baatezu who inhabit it and are ruled by Mephistopheles.” He takes a deep breath. “Last I’ve heard, rumors had it that he is increasing his influence on the Prime by encouraging certain cults to worship him, granting favors of command over Hellfire in exchange.”

“I had encountered this very odd cult once.” Adele nods thoughtfully. “Their lair was centered on a pit where they sacrificed their kidnapped victims by immolation. The fire they wielded as a weapon was different from what wizards conjure and when I submitted my report to the Primarch he seemed more disturbed than usual, but discouraged me researching the matter myself until it ‘could be looked into further by experts of the order’ as he put it.” She pauses, and feels her teeth clench. “It would be really useful, now, if I had disregarded that suggestion, and went digging in the library.”

“You couldn’t have known.” Valen’s lips brush her hair. “As far as you and perhaps even the Primarch were concerned, it was merely a demon-worshipper cult. A lot of organizations fighting for good don’t really distinguish, you know, and you very likely had other things to worry about that to follow up on a dim possibility of misidentifying some… maladjusted humans.”

“But it matters!” She’s not sure why she sounds so angry, even to her own ears. “And it irks me that I missed it. From what you say, and from what I’ve learned from Mephistopheles himself, this was all a part of this big plans, and…” She grimaces, when she realizes why she is so annoyed. _Congratulations, Adele, for finally coming to terms with the fact that you are not perfect._

And that realization puts her encounter with Mephistopheles in a refreshingly new perspective suddenly.

“Thank Torm for small favors, why is it that evil so loves boasting about their deeds and plans anyway?”

“Noticed that, didn’t you?” She can practically _hear_ him grin, even though he’s behind her. “So what is it that the Duke of the Eighth told you about his nefarious plans?”

Adele takes a deep breath to calm herself. It’s not that she doesn’t know exactly why Valen is turning this into a light banter, and it’s not that she’s not grateful for him for it, but the memory is still fresh, of those topaz-yellow eyes, too-long teeth and deceptively courtly accent. She shivers, and feels Valen’s arms tighten around her.

“I know,” he says soothingly. “To one such as you to meet one of the Powers of Baator must have been quite harrowing. I’m sorry if I seemingly made light of it: that was not…”

“It’s all right.” Adele leans further back into him and can almost feel the pleased rumble from his chest. “Next time I’ll do better, I promise,” she says wrily, and Valen laughs.

“I would bet my life on that,” he responds, half-jesting, half-serious, one hand absentmindedly stroking her arm. “It is quite absurd, isn’t it? A tanar’ri tiefling and a paladin in the Hells…”

“Like a tavern joke, more like.” Adele agrees. “And I somewhat suspect that it actually might aid us. The inherent controversy of it, I mean. I never really dabbled in deep philosophy: I’m rather good at smiting and looking good in armor, as you know…” Valen snorts, “but even I can sense that his intricate plan to be freed and let loose on the Prime might yet be backfired on the Eighth Duke of Hell.”

“It should.” Valen’s voice is a bit uncertain, and Adele can’t help but take notice. “Like you said, we are not exactly a… conventional couple, you know?”

“Hey.” Adele twists quickly in his arms. “I don’t give a fig about conventionality; you should know it by now.” Her smile is wide and fierce. “Valen, I finally found the other half of my soul in you; why do you think I should care about what the world says when I know in my heart of hearts that this…” and she twines their hands together, squeezing tightly, tightly, “…that this is _right_?”

“And so be it, then.” Valen gathers her in his arms again, tightly, and Adele, yet again, feels like she could take on just about anything and anyone, up to and including said Duke of the Eighth Hell. “It is right.” He kisses her, long and deep, and grins widely when they part. “It _still_ sounds like a bawdy tavern joke, though. But I will take it.”

 


End file.
